Showing results by narrator "Peter Silverleaf" in All Categories

Clarinda stared open mouthed at the squat little creature, its amber eyes gleaming in the afternoon sun, its moist, warty skin taut over the rubbery flesh beneath.

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

It's unlikely you'll read this as it's hidden on my computer, saved under 'lists'. If it comes to light it will hurt you, Lars, and I'm sorry for that.

The pub is empty except for a couple - man and wife, judging by her wedding ring - sitting in silence by the fire. Her back is to me; the corners of his mouth turn down. I'm pretty sure they're the ones I'm looking for.

As soon as Simone set foot on the path through the heather, her spirits began to rise. The red grouse were nesting, but the cries of curlew and lapwing, and the piping of meadow pipits and the trilling of skylarks punctuated the perfect stillness.

War and Peace is a literary work mixed with chapters on history and philosophy by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy. It was first published serially, then published in its entirety in 1869. First Epilogue: 1813-20: Seven years had passed. The storm-tossed sea of European history had subsided within its shores and seemed to have become calm. But the mysterious forces that move humanity (mysterious because the laws of their motion are unknown to us) continued to operate.

War and Peace is a literary work mixed with chapters on history and philosophy by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy. Book 15: 1812-13: When seeing a dying animal a man feels a sense of horror: substance similar to his own is perishing before his eyes. But when it is a beloved and intimate human being that is dying, besides this horror at the extinction of life there is a severance, a spiritual wound, which like a physical wound is sometimes fatal and sometimes heals, but always aches and shrinks at any external irritating touch.

I knew Lord Charles Purefoy in the 1970s, but then so did everyone. I had also known him in the 1960s when we were at school together, and in the same house.

What is it about dealers in rare books and manuscripts? One would have to go a long way to meet one who was not a little strange, and Enoch Stapleton was no exception to the rule.

Three weeks after I had arrived in Nairobi in January 1976 my father wrote to me. I took it to be a sign that he was reconciled to the fact that his only son had decided to join a theatre company in what he called 'the back of beyond'.

The Warlord of Mars is a science fantasy novel by American writer Edgar Rice Burroughs, the third of his Barsoom series. Burroughs began writing it in June, 1913, going through five working titles; Yellow Men of Barsoom, The Fighting Prince of Mars, Across Savage Mars, The Prince of Helium, and The War Lord of Mars.

War and Peace is a literary work mixed with chapters on history and philosophy by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy. Second Epilogue: History is the life of nations and of humanity. To seize and put into words, to describe directly the life of humanity or even of a single nation, appears impossible. The ancient historians all employed one and the same method to describe and seize the apparently elusive the life of a people. They described the activity of individuals who ruled the people, and regarded the activity of those men as representing the activity of the whole nation.

War and Peace is a literary work mixed with chapters on history and philosophy by the Russian author Leo Tolstoy. Book 8: 1811-12: After Prince Andrew's engagement to Natásha, Pierre without any apparent cause suddenly felt it impossible to go on living as before. Firmly convinced as he was of the truths revealed to him by his benefactor, and happy as he had been in perfecting his inner man, to which he had devoted himself with such ardor-all the zest of such a life vanished after the engagement of Andrew and Natásha and the death of Joseph Alexéevich.

There was a time before the Great War when Petropol was the most fashionable resort in the Crimea. If you arrived by steamer, you would have disembarked onto a stone jetty that extended a long grey arm into the oily smooth waters of the Black Sea.

The past doesn't always stay where it should. It is as though somebody, or something, is forever trying to bring it painfully into the present. Flavian Bennett is trying to leave his past behind when he goes to work in his father's bookshop in Paris. But a curious customer, Reginald Hopper, is desperate to resurrect his own murky origins. Hopper believes that a rare and mysterious book, The Dark Return of Time, may be the key to what happened before he arrived in Paris. In this quiet thriller by R.B. Russell, the futures - and pasts - of these two men will soon cross.

Although not compulsory, it was made clear to me that I was expected to attend the group. I could find no good excuse to avoid going to the first meeting.

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.

I made quite an exhibition of myself. I'm usually so shy I fade into the background, take my place at the end of the queue, stand in the corner of the room watching what other people do. It's not that I fear the lime-light, but I try to avoid being vulgar or pushy.

Against a black backdrop strewn with stars the silver figure in a long, floating dress sang and swirled, the little silk-shod feet mirrored in the polished black floor. Her voice trilled and swooped like an upper-class nightingale, with those odd strangulated vowels so alien to us today.

Clive was right to suspect there would be trouble when he set up his computer consultancy. Just as he began his publicity campaign, the local newspaper ran an article about him.