Résultats lu par "Carl Mason" dans Toutes les catégories

"The Singular Speculation of the House-Agent" is a Story by G. K. Chesterton. First appeared in Harper's Weekly (June 11 and 18, 1904). Basil Grant investigates the mystery of Lieutenant Keith, whose house, "The Elms", Buxton Common, cannot be found.

Down and out in Paris and London is the first full-length work by the English author George Orwell, published in 1933. It is a memoir in two parts on the theme of poverty in the two cities. The first part is an account of living in near-destitution in Paris and the experience of casual labour in restaurant kitchens. The second part is a travelogue of life on the road in and around London from the tramp's perspective, with descriptions of the types of hostel accommodation available and some of the characters to be found living on the margins.

Oroonoko: or, the Royal Slave is a short work of prose fiction by Aphra Behn (1640-1689), published in 1688 by William Canning and reissued with two other fictions later that year. It was also adapted into a play. The eponymous hero is an African prince from Coramantien who is tricked into slavery and sold to British colonists in Surinam where he meets the narrator. Behn's text is a first-person account of his life, love, rebellion, and execution.

"Tom Tiddler's Ground" is the title of an 1861 short story by Charles Dickens, and the phrase "Tom Tidler's ground" appears in his novels Nicholas Nickleby, David Copperfield and Dombey and Son. Tom Tiddler's Ground, also known as Tom Tidler's Ground or Tommy Tiddler's Ground, is a longstanding children's game. One player, "Tom Tiddler," stands on a heap of stones, gravel, etc. Other players rush onto the heap, crying "Here I am on Tom Tiddler's ground, picking up gold and silver," while Tom tries to capture.

The Robinsons arrived late in the evening; he in black tie and she in a long cocktail dress of sheer red silk.

Joel had applied for the Rawthorpe Award with very low expectations and so he was extremely surprised to receive a letter from the Foundation telling him that he was the recipient of one of the ten writers' bursaries on offer that year.

Like most children I dreamed that I could fly and that I could take giant bounding leaps across the landscape. On summer mornings I would try this out on my way to school, hoping to find myself far above the tarmacked lane, looking down on the fields and my friends below.

Twelve Years a Slave, sub-title: Narrative of Solomon Northup, citizen of New-York, kidnapped in Washington city in 1841, and rescued in 1853, from a cotton plantation near the Red River in Louisiana, is a memoir by Solomon Northup as told to and edited by David Wilson. It is a slave narrative of a black man who was born free in New York state but kidnapped in Washington, D.C., sold into slavery, and kept in bondage for 12 years in Louisiana.

All through August Abigail looked out for the ship, counting the masts on each vessel and reading their names before they reached the harbour.

My friends raved about the view from my study. Tristram said, 'How lucky you are! I could look at it forever.' He often returned to the window to watch the changes that mark the progress of each day: the gradual greening of the grass, light moving over the fields, a larger flock of crows.

Lucy was an awkward child, unlike Oliver and Sam who, when it was dry, played outside most of the time. She spent a great deal of the summer holiday visiting the library, reading in her room and researching online.

The drop-in group met every Wednesday morning at the St Francis Centre. Sometimes there were activities painting a picture or learning something new on the computer but mostly it was a social event.

The sand shimmered and sparkled under the midday sun. Millicent wriggled her toes in her sandals and looked up at Fabian as he addressed the party of tourists. Behind them, the calm blue sea rippled rhythmically over the beach.

As soon as Simone set foot on the path through the heather, her spirits began to rise.

Tonya matched her pace to that of the sedately departing steam train. She opened the last door of the last carriage with the nonchalance of a seasoned commuter and stepped aboard.

Edward Clarke was staring out of the window of his bookshop, a cigarette held delicately between his long, thin fingers, his unshaven chin slightly upraised.

"Mrs. Taylor?" The greeting came from a woman sitting in a ponderous wingback chair by the front door. Because of the paperwork on her lap she could not immediately stand.

Several days had passed since the incident and the villagers were still coming to terms with the fact that their young people would have to lie low for a while. Mike's two teenage daughters were caught up in it and he informed them that they would be grounded for the next month.

Dusk is some way off and I stand at the bar, waiting to be served. I've been here often on my way home from work - It's half-empty on early summer evenings, and the staff are efficient and not averse to passing the time in conversation.

Hannah held the bronze statuette up to the light. It was small, fitting easily in her hand. She was pretty sure that it was the likeness of a classical god, and it was a fairly standard representation, except for the eyes, the whites of which had been inlaid with ivory, while the pupils were little chips of verdigrised bronze.