Az escseppek fenn születnek az égen, egy hatalmas felhpalotában. Annak is a belsejében. Puha fehérség veszi ket krbe. A csecsem escseppek azonban gyorsan fejldnek. Megszületésük után már egy-két órával vidáman ugrándoznak, hancúroznak. Ha megszomjaznak, finom páralevet isznak, ha megéheznek, ízletes felhcipót majszolnak. Gyorsan nnek. s gondtalan életük tele van mókával, meglepetéssel. Ugyanis a felhkastély, ami lassan úszik a kék égen, nem olyan, mint az emberek által épített házak, várak, kastélyok – merthogy a szobák nem maradnak ugyanott, hanem folyton vándorolnak, de még a feladatuk is állandóan változik. Az, ami reggel még a konyha volt, délidre hálószobává alakul át, estére pedig már fürdszoba lesz. Ezért az escsepp gyerekek élete csupa izgalmas kaland. Amikor egyik helyiségbl átfutnak a másikba, még nem tudják, hogy mi vár rájuk a kvetkez szobában. Ennek az az oka, hogy maga a palota is percrl percre arrébb mozdul az égen, a szél fújja tovább, az egész épület szüntelenül gomolyog. A legkisebbek ezért a palota kzepén cseperednek fel, mert a szélek, ahol a nagyobbak és a felnttek élnek, sokszor leszakadoznak, amikbl es hull a fldre.”

A hatalmas sikert aratott Marokkói szerelem szerz?jének új k?nyve Yasmine magyar származású édesanyjával, Lillával, és muzulmán édesapjával, Abd ar-Rashid Gibrannal él az Egyesült Arab Emírségekben. A fiatal lány minden vágya, hogy megismerhesse gy?kereit, és anyja szül?hazájában tanulhasson. Apja nem támogatja a lány külf?ldi útját, de felesége unszolására végül, szigorú feltételeket szabva, elengedi ?t. Yasmine az egyetemen szoros barátságot k?t Larával. A lány bátyjával viszont k?lcs?n?s ellenszenv alakul ki, de végül kiderül számukra, hogy milyen keskeny a határ a gy?l?let és a szenvedélyes szerelem k?z?tt. Lehet-e esélyük a fiataloknak a hith? muzulmán apa támogatása nélkül? Kiállhatja-e szerelmük az id? és megannyi akadály próbáját? Dee Dumas a nagy siker? Marokkói szerelem cím? k?tete után ezúttal a mesés Emírségekbe varázsolja olvasóit, ahol kiderül, hogy mire képes egy szerelmes szív, hogy beteljesítse legh?bb vágyait.

The stories were written when Irish nationalism was at its peak, and a search for a national identity and purpose was raging; at a crossroads of history and culture, Ireland was jolted by various converging ideas and influences. They centre on Joyce's idea of an epiphany: a moment where a character experiences self-understanding or illumination. Many of the characters in Dubliners later appear in minor roles in Joyce's novel Ulysses. The initial stories in the collection are narrated by child protagonists, and as the stories continue, they deal with the lives and concerns of progressively older people. This is in line with Joyce's tripartite division of the collection into childhood, adolescence and maturity. THERE was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: "I am not long for this world," and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said softly to myself the word paralysis. It had always sounded strangely in my ears, like the word gnomon in the Euclid and the word simony in the Catechism. But now it sounded to me like the name of some maleficent and sinful being. It filled me with fear, and yet I longed to be nearer to it and to look upon its deadly work.Old Cotter was sitting at the fire, smoking, when I came downstairs to supper. While my aunt was ladling out my stirabout he said, as if returning to some former remark of his: "No, I wouldn't say he was exactly... but there was something queer... there was something uncanny about him. I'll tell you my opinion...." He began to puff at his pipe, no doubt arranging his opinion in his mind. Tiresome old fool! When we knew him first he used to be rather interesting, talking of faints and worms; but I soon grew tired of him and his endless stories about the distillery. "I have my own theory about it," he said. "I think it was one of those... peculiar cases.... But it's hard to say...." He began to puff again at his pipe without giving us his theory. My uncle saw me staring and said to me:"Well, so your old friend is gone, you'll be sorry to hear." "Who?" said I."Father Flynn.""Is he dead?" ? ABOUT AUTHOR: ? James Augustine Aloysius Joyce (1882 – 1941) was an Irish novelist and poet, considered to be one of the most influential writers in the modernist avant-garde of the early 20th century. Joyce is best known for Ulysses (1922), a landmark work in which the episodes of Homer's Odyssey are paralleled in an array of contrasting literary styles, perhaps most prominent among these the stream of consciousness technique he perfected. Other major works are the short-story collection Dubliners (1914), and the novels A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916) and Finnegans Wake (1939). His complete oeuvre also includes three books of poetry, a play, occasional journalism, and his published letters.

"A Daughter of the Snows" is Jack London's first novel. The novel features a strong female heroine, Frona Welse. Frona was born into a wealthy family and educated at Stanford but she takes to the Yukon trail after upsetting her father and his wealthy community of friends with her out-spoken ways and her innocent friendship with the town's prostitute. "All ready, Miss Welse, though I'm sorry we can't spare one of the steamer's boats." Frona Welse arose with alacrity and came to the first officer's side. "We're so busy," he explained, "and gold-rushers are such perishable freight, at least—" "I understand," she interrupted, "and I, too, am behaving as though I were perishable. And I am sorry for the trouble I am giving you, but—but—" She turned quickly and pointed to the shore. "Do you see that big log-house Between the clump of pines and the river I was born there." "Guess I'd be in a hurry myself," he muttered, sympathetically, as he piloted her along the crowded deck.Everybody was in everybody else's way; nor was there one who failed to proclaim it at the top of his lungs. A thousand gold-seekers were clamoring for the immediate landing of their outfits. Each hatchway gaped wide open, and from the lower depths the shrieking donkey-engines were hurrying the misassorted outfits skyward. On either side of the steamer, rows of scows received the flying cargo, and on each of these scows a sweating mob of men charged the descending slings and heaved bales and boxes about in frantic search. Men waved shipping receipts and shouted over the steamer-rails to them. Sometimes two and three identified the same article, and war arose. The "two-circle" and the "circle-and-dot" brands caused endless jangling, while every whipsaw discovered a dozen claimants. "The purser insists that he is going mad," the first officer said, as he helped Frona Welse down the gangway to the landing stage, "and the freight clerks have turned the cargo over to the passengers and quit work. But we're not so unlucky as the Star of Bethlehem," he reassured her, pointing to a steamship at anchor a quarter of a mile away. "Half of her passengers have pack-horses for Skaguay and White Pass, and the other half are bound over the Chilcoot. So they've mutinied and everything's at a standstill." "Hey, you!" he cried, beckoning to a Whitehall which hovered discreetly on the outer rim of the floating confusion. A tiny launch, pulling heroically at a huge tow-barge, attempted to pass between; but the boatman shot nervily across her bow, and just as he was clear, unfortunately, caught a crab. This slewed the boat around and brought it to a stop. "Watch out!" the first officer shouted. ABOUT AUTHOR: John Griffith "Jack" London (born John Griffith Chaney, January 12, 1876 – November 22, 1916) was an American author, journalist, and social activist, Authors of; "The Pearls of Parlay" and "The Heathen", and of the San Francisco Bay area in The Sea Wolf. And also; as his dystopian novel The Iron Heel, his non-fiction exposé The People of the Abyss, and The War of the Classes.

Inspirat de o tem? pe care o prime?te de la noul s?u profesor de ?tiin?e sociale, micul Trevor are o idee menit? s? schimbe lumea. O ambi?ie uria?? pentru un pu?ti de numai doisprezece ani, dar care reu?e?te, ?n ciuda obstacolelor, s? nu-?i piard? idealismul ?i s? demonstreze c? to?i putem fi capabili de fapte bune.?n jocul aritmetic al lui Trevor, de la un singur om care face trei lucruri importante pentru trei oameni diferi?i, se poate ajunge la o lume ?ntreag? ?n care o favoare primit? nu se ?ntoarce, ci se r?spl?te?te d?nd mai departe ajutorul celor care au nevoie de el.?O capodoper? cu un final incendiar." Kirkus Reviews?Foarte puternic… dialoguri veridice ?i nuan?e care fac personajele mai vii dec?t ar fi ?n realitate." Chicago Tribune?Catherine Ryan Hyde ne conduce c?tre un final curajos ?i puternic." Los Angeles Times?Filosofia din spatele c?r?ii este at?t de interesant?, iar optimismul ei at?t de contagios, ?nc?t cititorul absoarbe f?r? s?-?i dea seama o poveste de care-?i va aminti mult? vreme." The Denver Post

Summary: Sara Crewe, a pupil at Miss Minchin's London school, is left in poverty when her father dies, but is later rescued by a mysterious benefactor. ?"Once on a dark winter's day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in the streets of London that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little girl sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather slowly through the big thoroughfares." ? She sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father, who held her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing people with a queer old-fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes. ? She was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face. It would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and Sara Crewe was only seven. The fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to. She felt as if she had lived a long, long time. ? "The Little Princes, in this Illustrated book, a fantastic girl who Principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it was that at one time one was in India in the blazing sun, and then in the middle of the ocean, and then driving in a strange vehicle through strange streets where the day was as dark as the night. She found this so puzzling that she moved closer to her father.." Illustrated by Murat UKray, By e-Kitap Projesi

1610-ben, egy borzalmas évet maga m?g?tt hagyva, Fabricius Flóra kénytelen Velencébe utazni.?A ?b?n?s ?r?m?k városába érve egy ismert és az urak által gyakran látogatott házban találja magát.?Vendéglátója nem más, mint a híres kurtizán, megment?jének édesanyja. Velence urai hamarosan versengeni kezdenek az ártatlan lány kegyeiért, ám ? csupán egyetlen férfi után vágyakozik,?Lorenzo Marianit azonban nem k?nny? ?r?kre rabul ejteni.?Flóra úgy d?nt, segít neki egy gyilkosság leleplezésében, noha az áldozatot egy cseppet sem szívlelte.?A szálak a legmagasabb k?r?kbe, a Collegió tagjai k?zé vezetnek, akik k?zül a legfiatalabb consiglieri bármit megadna, hogy a szép magyar lányt a magáénak tudhassa.?Képes lesz-e Flóra ellenállni a gazdagság és a hatalom csábításának??R. Kelényi Angelika, Az ártatlan cím? k?nyve második részében, egy izgalmas, kalandos és romantikus utazásra invitálja az olvasókat a 17. század Velencéjébe.?Ahogy azt már megszokhattuk, a regény t?rténete a hatalom, a vágy, a b?n és a szerelem gyilkos kombinációja, t?rténelmi korba ágyazva.?

Te is szereted, ha lustán elnyújtózhatsz a parton, szikrázik a nap, szemed el?tt a nagy kékség, ?sszecsúszik a víz és az ég, nem szól a telefon és az sem foglalkoztat, mi t?rténik a k?z?sségi oldalakon? ?ppen kikérted a kedvenc koktélodat, koccintasz a szeretteiddel, majd belenyúlsz a strandtáskába és el?veszed azt a k?nyvet, ami elfeledtet veled minden gondot, és a nyaralásod idejére teljes kikapcsolódást ígér. Igen, ez az igazi Holiday-érzés! Fej?s ?va legújabb k?nyvében is gondoskodik arról, hogy vele utazzunk, akár ha otthon, a kedvenc karosszékünkbe ülve vesszük is kezünkbe a k?tetet. Romantika, b?nügyi szál, kaland, utazás, nosztalgia, boldogságkeresés vár ránk - akárcsak az eddigi k?tetekben.? ?s hogy mit?l más a Holiday? Ebben a k?nyvben hosszabb-r?videbb t?rténetekkel szórakoztat a szerz? - mindenki maga d?nti el az olvasási sorrendet, ahogyan a hangulata diktálja. Egy biztos: mire az olvasó a vaskos k?tet utolsó lapjához érkezik, és véget ér a "holiday", t?kéletesen felt?lt?dik - és talán ez lesz élete legmesésebb nyara.

Egy teljesen átlagosnak induló napon egy gy?ny?r?, fiatal n? lép be Sam Capra San Franciscó-i bárjába, és kétségbeesetten arra kéri, hogy mentse meg üld?z?it?l. A volt CIA-ügyn?k egyetlen vágya, hogy nyugodt és békés otthont teremtsen a családjának, ám a t?kéletes életr?l sz?tt álma abban a pillanatban szertefoszlik, amint Diana Keene felt?nik a színen. Mire Sam feleszmél, máris egy kegyetlen játszma kell?s k?zepén találja magát. A lányt ugyanis egy dúsgazdag és befolyásos személyekb?l álló titkos társaság akarja elkapni. Ezekkel a mindenre elszánt b?n?z?kkel rúgja ?ssze a port Sam Capra, amikor megmenti a fiatal lányt üld?z?it?l. A bosszú pedig nem maradhat el. Sam egyetlen reménye, hogy túléli az ellene indított támadást. Ahhoz azonban, hogy visszakapja régi életét, el kell pusztítania a mindent – és mindenkit – behálózó szervezet teljhatalmú vezet?jét, a rejtélyes és kegyetlen Beliast… A Sam Capra-sorozat legújabb részében JEFF ABBOTT ismét lélegzetelállító tempót diktál. A volt CIA-ügyn?k személyében Jason Bourne igazi kihívóra talált. Thrillerfanatikusoknak k?telez? darab.

Sok nevem volt már. T?bb mint amennyit meg tudnék jegyezni. A k?vetkez? nevemet még nem ismerem, a mostanit már rég elfeledtem. Már nem érdekel, ki voltam, s mit tettem. Voltak k?ztük h?stettek, jó dolgok, melyekre jó érzés visszagondolni, de még t?bb volt, amire nem vagyok büszke. Tettem dolgokat parancsra - akármelyik oldal is utasított -, és tettem dolgokat, hogy védjem magam... T?lem nem aludt nyugodtan a rend?rség, és t?lem rettegett az alvilág. A legkeresettebb b?n?z?k top 100-as listájának el?kel? harmadik helyét foglaltam el. Az igazságszolgáltatás kényes "végrehajtó" rését t?mtem be. Sok mindenre büszke vagyok, és még t?bbt?l fog el a hányinger. Nehéz volt, de végül felkerült az i-re a pont. Teljesítette feladatomat, megpihenhetek végre. Végeztem mindennel és mindenkivel. Ez életem utolsó napjainak t?rténete...

Az igaz szerelem le tud gy?zni minden akadályt? Gabriella, a t?rténet h?sn?je nyaralni indul barátn?jével Puerto Ricóba, ahol váratlanul találkozik az ünnepelt filmcsillaggal, David Canóval és szoros barátság alakul ki k?ztük. Vagy talán még annál is t?bb? Gabi szerelmes lesz a férfiba, mégis elutasítja annak k?zeledését és a nyaralás végeztével hazatér a férjéhez. Egy váratlan fordulat azonban úgy hozza, hogy id? k?zben Gabi férje, Roberto bejelenti: válni akar, újra fellángolt a szerelem k?zte és a volt barátn?je k?z?tt. Látszólag elhárul minden akadály Gabi és David szerelmének beteljesülése el?l. De a sors furcsa játékot ?z a szerelmesekkel, ezért a két egészen kül?nb?z? világból érkez? fiatal útjai hamarosan szétválnak, és Gabi kénytelen egy hatalmas titokkal a szívében élni. Vajon el tudja titkolni szerelme el?l azt, amit mindenki más tud? Katie Fran?oise els? romantikus-kalandos regényében választ keres a minden férfit és n?t foglalkoztató kérdésékre. Vajon el lehet választani azokat, akiket egymásnak szánt a sors?

The story begins on May 5, 1805, in one of the wildest and most abrupt portions of New Spain, which now forms the State of Coahuila, belonging to the Mexican Confederation. If the reader will have the kindness to take a glance at a numerous cavalcade, which is debouching from a canyon and scaling at a gallop the scarped side of a rather lofty hill, on the top of which stands an aldea, or village of Indios mansos, he will at the same time form the acquaintance of several of our principal characters, and the country in which the events recorded in this narrative occurred. This cavalcade was composed of fifteen individuals in all; ten of them were lancers, attired in that yellow uniform which procured them the nickname of tamarindos. These soldiers were execrated by the people, in consequence of their cruelty. They advanced in good order, commanded by a subaltern and an alférez—an old trooper who had grown gray in harness, who had long white moustachios and a disagreeable face. As he galloped on, he looked around him with the careless, wearied air of a man for whom the future reserves no hopes either of ambition, love, or fortune. About twenty paces from this little band, and just so far ahead that their remarks reached the soldiers' ears in a completely incomprehensible fashion, three persons, two men and a woman, were riding side by side.The first was a gentleman of about thirty years of age, of commanding stature; his harsh, haughty, and menacing features were rendered even more gloomy by a deep scar of a livid hue which commenced on his right temple and divided his face into two nearly equal parts. This man, who was dressed in the sumptuous costume of the Mexican campesinos, which he wore with far from common grace, was named Don Aníbal de Saldibar, and was considered the richest hacendero in the province.His companion, who kept slightly in the rear, doubtless through respect, was a civilized Indian, with a quick eye, aquiline nose, and a wide mouth lined with two rows of dazzling white teeth. His countenance indicated intelligence and bravery. He was short and robust, and the almost disproportioned development of his muscles gave an enormous width to his limbs. This individual must assuredly be endowed with extraordinary strength. His attire, not nearly so rich as that of the hacendero, displayed a certain pretension to elegance, which was an extraordinary thing in an Indian. This man's name was Pedro Sotavento, and he was majordomo to Don Aníbal.As we have said, the third person was a female. Although it was easy to see, through the juvenile grace of her movements and her taper waist, that she was still very young, she was so discreetly hidden behind gauze and muslin veils, in order to protect her from the burning heat of the sun which was then at its zenith, that it was impossible to distinguish her features. Long black locks escaped from beneath her broad-brimmed vicu?a hat, and fell in profusion on her pink and white shoulders, which were scarcely veiled by a China crape rebozo. At the moment when we approach these three persons they were conversing together with considerable animation."No," Don Aníbal said, with a frown, as he smote the pommel of his saddle, "it is not possible, I cannot believe in so much audacity on the part of these Indian brutes. You must have been deceived, Sotavento." The majordomo grinned knowingly, and buried his head between his shoulders with a motion which was habitual to him."You will see, mi amo," he replied, in a honeyed voice, "my information is positive." "What!" the hacendero continued with increased fury, "They would really attempt resistance! Why, they must be mad!""Not so much as you suppose, mi amo; the aldea is large and contains at least three thousand callis.""What matter? Suppose there were twice as many, is not one Spaniard as good as ten Indians?"

Видано 45 мовами! Донна Тартт — лауреат Пул?тцер?всько? прем?? № 1 у списку 100 видатних книжок за верс??ю The New York Times Отямившись п?сля вибуху в музе?, тринадцятир?чний Тео ще не розум??, що там, п?д уламками, залишилися його мат?р ? його дитинство. Пробираючись до виходу, повз кам?ння та т?ла, в?н п?дбира? безц?нну картину фламандського майстра, яку так любила його мати. Дивний старий, вмираючи, в?дда? йому свого персня та просить винести картину зв?дси... Тео буде кидати ?з родини в родину, ?з Нью-Йорка до Амстердама, ?з глибин в?дчаю до ейфор??. Викрадений ?Щиголь? стане його прокляттям та над??ю на порятунок... Vidano 45 movami! Donna Tartt — laureat Pul?tcer?vs'ko? prem?? № 1 u spisku 100 vidatnih knizhok za vers??ju The New York Times Otjamivshis' p?slja vibuhu v muze?, trinadcjatir?chnij Teo shhe ne rozum??, shho tam, p?d ulamkami, zalishilisja jogo mat?r ? jogo ditinstvo. Probirajuchis' do vihodu, povz kam?nnja ta t?la, v?n p?dbira? bezc?nnu kartinu flamands'kogo majstra, jaku tak ljubila jogo mati. Divnij starij, vmirajuchi, v?dda? jomu svogo persnja ta prosit' vinesti kartinu zv?dsi... Teo bude kidati ?z rodini v rodinu, ?z N'ju-Jorka do Amsterdama, ?z glibin v?dchaju do ejfor??. Vikradenij ?Shhigol'? stane jogo prokljattjam ta nad??ju na porjatunok...

Underground* *The author of the diary and the diary itself are, of course, imaginary. Nevertheless it is clear that such persons as the writer of these notes not only may, but positively must, exist in our society, when we consider the circumstances in the midst of which our society is formed. I have tried to expose to the view of the public more distinctly than is commonly done, one of the characters of the recent past. He is one of the representatives of a generation still living. In this fragment, entitled "Underground," this person introduces himself and his views, and, as it were, tries to explain the causes owing to which he has made his appearance and was bound to make his appearance in our midst. In the second fragment there are added the actual notes of this person concerning certain events in his life.--AUTHOR'S NOTE. II am a sick man.... I am a spiteful man. I am an unattractive man. I believe my liver is diseased. However, I know nothing at all about my disease, and do not know for certain what ails me. I don't consult a doctor for it, and never have, though I have a respect for medicine and doctors. Besides, I am extremely superstitious, sufficiently so to respect medicine, anyway (I am well-educated enough not to be superstitious, but I am superstitious). No, I refuse to consult a doctor from spite. That you probably will not understand. Well, I understand it, though. Of course, I can't explain who it is precisely that I am mortifying in this case by my spite: I am perfectly well aware that I cannot "pay out" the doctors by not consulting them; I know better than anyone that by all this I am only injuring myself and no one else. But still, if I don't consult a doctor it is from spite. My liver is bad, well--let it get worse! I have been going on like that for a long time--twenty years. Now I am forty. I used to be in the government service, but am no longer. I was a spiteful official. I was rude and took pleasure in being so. I did not take bribes, you see, so I was bound to find a recompense in that, at least. (A poor jest, but I will not scratch it out. I wrote it thinking it would sound very witty; but now that I have seen myself that I only wanted to show off in a despicable way, I will not scratch it out on purpose!) When petitioners used to come for information to the table at which I sat, I used to grind my teeth at them, and felt intense enjoyment when I succeeded in making anybody unhappy. I almost did succeed. For the most part they were all timid people--of course, they were petitioners. But of the uppish ones there was one officer in particular I could not endure. He simply would not be humble, and clanked his sword in a disgusting way. I carried on a feud with him for eighteen months over that sword. At last I got the better of him. He left off clanking it. That happened in my youth, though. But do you know, gentlemen, what was the chief point about my spite? Why, the whole point, the real sting of it lay in the fact that continually, even in the moment of the acutest spleen, I was inwardly conscious with shame that I was not only not a spiteful but not even an embittered man, that I was simply scaring sparrows at random and amusing myself by it. I might foam at the mouth, but bring me a doll to play with, give me a cup of tea with sugar in it, and maybe I should be appeased. I might even be genuinely touched, though probably I should grind my teeth at myself afterwards and lie awake at night with shame for months after. That was my way.

In these times of ours, though concerning the exact year there is no need to be precise, a boat of dirty and disreputable appearance, with two figures in it, floated on the Thames, between Southwark bridge which is of iron, and London Bridge which is of stone, as an autumn evening was closing in. The figures in this boat were those of a strong man with ragged grizzled hair and a sun-browned face, and a dark girl of nineteen or twenty, sufficiently like him to be recognizable as his daughter. The girl rowed, pulling a pair of sculls very easily; the man, with the rudder-lines slack in his hands, and his hands loose in his waistband, kept an eager look out. He had no net, hook, or line, and he could not be a fisherman; his boat had no cushion for a sitter, no paint, no inscription, no appliance beyond a rusty boathook and a coil of rope, and he could not be a waterman; his boat was too crazy and too small to take in cargo for delivery, and he could not be a lighterman or river-carrier; there was no clue to what he looked for, but he looked for something, with a most intent and searching gaze. The tide, which had turned an hour before, was running down, and his eyes watched every little race and eddy in its broad sweep, as the boat made slight head-way against it, or drove stern foremost before it, according as he directed his daughter by a movement of his head. She watched his face as earnestly as he watched the river. But, in the intensity of her look there was a touch of dread or horror. Allied to the bottom of the river rather than the surface, by reason of the slime and ooze with which it was covered, and its sodden state, this boat and the two figures in it obviously were doing something that they often did, and were seeking what they often sought. Half savage as the man showed, with no covering on his matted head, with his brown arms bare to between the elbow and the shoulder, with the loose knot of a looser kerchief lying low on his bare breast in a wilderness of beard and whisker, with such dress as he wore seeming to be made out of the mud that begrimed his boat, still there was a business-like usage in his steady gaze. So with every lithe action of the girl, with every turn of her wrist, perhaps most of all with her look of dread or horror; they were things of usage. 'Keep her out, Lizzie. Tide runs strong here. Keep her well afore the sweep of it.' Trusting to the girl's skill and making no use of the rudder, he eyed the coming tide with an absorbed attention. So the girl eyed him. But, it happened now, that a slant of light from the setting sun glanced into the bottom of the boat, and, touching a rotten stain there which bore some resemblance to the outline of a muffled human form, coloured it as though with diluted blood. This caught the girl's eye, and she shivered. 'What ails you?' said the man, immediately aware of it, though so intent on the advancing waters; 'I see nothing afloat.' The red light was gone, the shudder was gone, and his gaze, which had come back to the boat for a moment, travelled away again. Wheresoever the strong tide met with an impediment, his gaze paused for an instant. At every mooring-chain and rope, at every stationery boat or barge that split the current into a broad-arrowhead, at the offsets from the piers of Southwark Bridge, at the paddles of the river steamboats as they beat the filthy water, at the floating logs of timber lashed together lying off certain wharves, his shining eyes darted a hungry look. After a darkening hour or so, suddenly the rudder-lines tightened in his hold, and he steered hard towards the Surrey shore. Always watching his face, the girl instantly answered to the action in her sculling; presently the boat swung round, quivered as from a sudden jerk, and the upper half of the man was stretched out over the stern.

Barrie never described Peter's appearance in detail, even in the novel Peter and Wendy (1911), leaving much of it to the imagination of the reader and the interpretation of anyone adapting the character. Barrie mentions in Peter and Wendy that Peter Pan still had all of his "first teeth". He describes him as a beautiful boy with a beautiful smile, "clad in skeleton leaves and the juices that flow from trees". In the play, Peter's outfit is made of autumn leaves and cobwebs. His name and playing the flute or pipes suggest the mythological character Pan.Traditionally, the character has been played on stage by an adult woman. Peter Breaks Through "All children, except one, grow up. They soon know that they will grow up, and the way Wendy knew was this. One day when she was two years old she was playing in a garden, and she plucked another flower and ran with it to her mother. I suppose she must have looked rather delightful, for Mrs. Darling put her hand to her heart and cried, "Oh, why can't you remain like this for ever!" This was all that passed between them on the subject, but henceforth Wendy knew that she must grow up. You always know after you are two. Two is the beginning of the end. Of course they lived at 14 [their house number on their street], and until Wendy came her mother was the chief one. She was a lovely lady, with a romantic mind and such a sweet mocking mouth. Her romantic mind was like the tiny boxes, one within the other, that come from the puzzling East, however many you discover there is always one more; and her sweet mocking mouth had one kiss on it that Wendy could never get, though there it was, perfectly conspicuous in the right-hand corner. The way Mr. Darling won her was this: the many gentlemen who had been boys when she was a girl discovered simultaneously that they loved her, and they all ran to her house to propose to her except Mr. Darling, who took a cab and nipped in first, and so he got her. He got all of her, except the innermost box and the kiss. He never knew about the box, and in time he gave up trying for the kiss. Wendy thought Napoleon could have got it, but I can picture him trying, and then going off in a passion, slamming the door. Mr. Darling used to boast to Wendy that her mother not only loved him but respected him. He was one of those deep ones who know about stocks and shares. Of course no one really knows, but he quite seemed to know, and he often said stocks were up and shares were down in a way that would have made any woman respect him. Mrs. Darling was married in white, and at first she kept the books perfectly, almost gleefully, as if it were a game, not so much as a Brussels sprout was missing; but by and by whole cauliflowers dropped out, and instead of them there were pictures of babies without faces. She drew them when she should have been totting up. They were Mrs. Darling's guesses. Wendy came first, then John, then Michael. .." About Author: Sir James Matthew Barrie, (9 May 1860 – 19 June 1937) was a Scottish author and dramatist, best remembered today as the creator of Peter Pan. The child of a family of small-town weavers, he was educated in Scotland. He moved to London, where he developed a career as a novelist and playwright. There he met the Llewelyn Davies boys who inspired him in writing about a baby boy who has magical adventures in Kensington Gardens (included in The Little White Bird), then to write Peter Pan, or The Boy Who Wouldn't Grow Up, a "fairy play" about this ageless boy and an ordinary girl named Wendy who have adventures in the fantasy setting of Neverland. This play quickly overshadowed his previous work and although he continued to write successfully, it became his best-known work, credited with popularising the name Wendy, which was very uncommon previously. Barrie unofficially adopted the Davies boys following the deaths of their parents. Barrie was made a baronet by George V in 1913, and a member of the Order of Merit in 1922. Before his death, he gave the rights to the Peter Pan works to London's Great Ormond Street Hospital, which continues to benefit from them.

Чортова дванадцятка — досить змстовна й влучна характеристика збрки жахв за редакцю неперевершеного Ствена Джонса! Пд одню обкладинкою збран 12 гостроцкавих оповдань менитих майстрв горору. Дж. Гаррс, К. Ньюман, М. рей, Р. Кемпбелл та нш гарантують вам безсонну нч в атмосфер тамничост й мстики… Подейкують, що в паризькому Театр Жаху влаштовують кривав вистави. Тридцятидвохрчна Кейт Рд пдбралася надто близько до розгадки… (Гньоль) Вдомий актор Даррен Ловр на пку популярност… був, аж доки не розгнвав вдьму! (Забуття)Chortova dvanadcjatka — dosit' zmstovna j vluchna harakteristika zbrki zhahv za redakcju neperevershenogo Stvena Dzhonsa! Pd odnju obkladinkoju zbran 12 gostrockavih opovdan' menitih majstrv gororu. Dzh. Garrs, K. N'juman, M. rej, R. Kempbell ta nsh garantujut' vam bezsonnu nch v atmosfer tamnichost j mstiki… Podejkujut', shho v pariz'komu Teatr Zhahu vlashtovujut' krivav vistavi. Tridcjatidvohrchna Kejt Rd pdbralasja nadto bliz'ko do rozgadki… (Gn'ol') Vdomij aktor Darren Lovr na pku populjarnost… buv, azh doki ne rozgnvav vd'mu! (Zabuttja)

In 1861 Captain Grant succeeded Captain Burgess on Matinicus, taking his son with him as assistant. The old keeper left Abby on the rock to instruct the newcomers in their duties, and she performed the task so well that young Grant fell in love with her, and asked her to become his wife. Soon after their marriage she was appointed an assistant keeper. A few years later the husband was made keeper and the wife assistant keeper of White Head, another light on the Maine coast. There they remained until the spring of 1890, when they removed to Middleborough, Mass., intending to pass the balance of their days beyond sight and hearing of the rocks and the waves. But the hunger which the sea breeds in its adopted children was still strong within them, and the fall of 1892 found them again on the coast of Maine, this time at Portland, where the husband again entered the lighthouse establishment, working in the engineers' department of the first lighthouse district. With them until his death lived Captain Grant, who in the closing months of 1890, being then aged eighty-five, retired from the position of keeper of Matinicus light, which he had held for nearly thirty years. Not less lonely, but far more perilous than the life of the keepers of a light like that on Matinicus is the lot of the crew of the South Shoal lightship, whose position twenty-six miles off Sankaty Head, Nantucket Island, makes it the most exposed light-station in the world. Anchored so far out at sea, it is only during the months of summer and autumn that the lighthouse tender ventures to visit it, and its crew from December to May of each year are wholly cut off from communication with the land. It is this, however, that makes the South Shoal lightship a veritable protecting angel of the deep, for it stands guard not only over the treacherous New South Shoal, near which it is anchored, but over twenty-six miles of rips and reefs between it and the Nantucket shore—a wide-reaching ocean graveyard, where bleach the bones of more than a half thousand wrecked and forgotten vessels. The lightship is a stanchly built two-hulled schooner of 275 tons burden, 103 feet long over all, equipped with fore-and-aft lantern masts 71 feet high, and with two masts for sails, each 42 feet high. The lanterns are octagons of glass in copper frames, so arranged that they can be lowered into houses built around the masts. In the forward part of the ship is a huge fog bell, swung ten feet above the deck, which, when foggy weather prevails, as it frequently does for weeks at a time, is kept tolling day and night. A two-inch chain fastened to a "mushroom" anchor weighing upward of three tons holds the vessel in eighteen fathoms of water, but this, so fiercely do the waves beat against it in winter, has not prevented her from going adrift many times. She was two weeks at sea on one of these occasions, and on another she came to anchor in New York Harbor. Life on the South Shoal lightship is at all times a hard and trying one, and, as a matter of fact, the crew are instructed not to expose themselves to danger outside their special line of duty. This, however, does not deter them from frequently risking their lives in rescuing others, and when, several years ago, the City of Newcastle went ashore on one of the shoals near the lightship, all hands, twenty-seven in number, were saved by the South Shoal crew and kept aboard of her over two weeks, until the story of the wreck was signalled to a passing vessel. Isaac H. Grant holds a silver medal given him by the Government for rescuing two men from drowning while he was keeper at White Head; while Frederick Hatch, keeper of the Breakwater station at Cleveland was awarded the gold bar. The last mentioned badge of honor is granted only to one who has twice distinguished himself by a special act of bravery. It was given Hatch in the winter of 1898.

Жасмин, двадцатичетырехлетняя красавица-американка, приезжает в Англию на Рождество погостить у родственников. Герцог Харли подарил ей жеребца, и она решает прокатится верхом. Но из-за разыгравшейся метели ее едва не сбивает машина, за рулем которой сидел граф Сомертон. Через некоторое время, волею судьбы, Жасмин опять встретится с графом, который приютит ее в своем замке после падения с лошади… Эта встреча навсегда изменит их жизнь и подарит им настоящую любовь… Zhasmin, dvadcatichetyrehletnjaja krasavica-amerikanka, priezzhaet v Angliju na Rozhdestvo pogostit' u rodstvennikov. Gercog Harli podaril ej zherebca, i ona reshaet prokatitsja verhom. No iz-za razygravshejsja meteli ee edva ne sbivaet mashina, za rulem kotoroj sidel graf Somerton. Cherez nekotoroe vremja, voleju sud'by, Zhasmin opjat' vstretitsja s grafom, kotoryj prijutit ee v svoem zamke posle padenija s loshadi… Jeta vstrecha navsegda izmenit ih zhizn' i podarit im nastojashhuju ljubov'…

Mon Agent Андрея М. Мелехова – третий роман об Аналитике. Как и предыдущие книги серии – Malaria и Analyste – Mon Agent представляет из себя необычную комбинацию приключенческого романа и мистического триллера. Он предлагает читателю не только получить удовольствие от весьма неожиданных поворотов нескольких сюжетных линий, но и задуматься над широким кругом философских, религиозных и мировоззренческих проблем, волнующих современного человека.Действие романа происходит в Лондоне и Москве, в Раю и в Преисподней. Его персонажами являются террористы и агенты спецслужб, герои Библии и герои тайных операций, великие пророки прошлого и политики настоящего, ангелы Божьи и слуги Сатаны, люди и говорящие животные. В произведении нашлось место большой любви и большой ненависти, острой политической сатире и тонкому юмору. Как и все книги Мелехова, Mon Agent написан для тех, кто способен подвергнуть сомнению догмы, стереотипы и предубеждения, кто может рассмеяться, говоря даже о весьма серьёзных вещах. Если вы хотите узнать, чем простые (и непростые!) смертные смогли помочь вдруг начавшим стареть и умирать обитателям Рая и как отнеслись бы сегодня люди к новому пришествию Христа – эта книга для вас, читатель! Вам предлагается новая редакция романа.

Daylight sometimes hides secrets that darkness will reveal—the Martian's glowing eyes, for instance. But darkness has other dangers.... Joseph Heidel looked slowly around the dinner table at the five men, hiding his examination by a thin screen of smoke from his cigar. He was a large man with thick blond-gray hair cut close to his head. In three more months he would be fifty-two, but his face and body had the vital look of a man fifteen years younger. He was the President of the Superior Council, and he had been in that post—the highest post on the occupied planet of Mars—four of the six years he had lived here. As his eyes flicked from one face to another his fingers unconsciously tapped the table, making a sound like a miniature drum roll. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Five top officials, selected, tested, screened on Earth to form the nucleus of governmental rule on Mars.Heidel's bright narrow eyes flicked, his fingers drummed. Which one? Who was the imposter, the ringer? Who was the Martian?Sadler's dry voice cut through the silence: "This is not just an ordinary meeting then, Mr. President?" Heidel's cigar came up and was clamped between his teeth. He stared into Sadler's eyes. "No, Sadler, it isn't. This is a very special meeting." He grinned around the cigar. "This is where we take the clothes off the sheep and find the wolf."