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Category： Author：Robert Michael Ballantyne
It was five o’clock in the afternoon. There can be no doubt whatever as to that. Old Agnes may say what she pleases—she has a habit of doing so—but I know for certain (because I looked at my watch not ten minutes before it happened) that it was exactly five o’clock in the afternoon when I received a most s...
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Category： Author：novel
I am still uncertain which surprised me more, the telegram calling my attention to the advertisement, or the advertisement itself. The telegram is before me as I write. It would appear to have been handed in at Vere Street at eight o'clock in the morning of May 11, 1897, and received before half-past at Holloway B.O. And in that ...
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Category： Author：novel
There was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff, of the Horse Guards. The long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o'clock in the morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won ate with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates. When the champagne appeared, howev...
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Category： Author：novel
The clock in the West Side Boys' Lodging-house ticked out the seconds of Christmas eve as slowly and methodically as if six fat turkeys were not sizzling in the basement kitchen against the morrow's spread, and as if two-score boys were not racking their brains to guess what kind of pies would go with them. Out on the avenue the shop-...
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Category： Author：novel
It was a wild and stormy October night. The big moon-faced clock in the entrance-hall, in its slow and solemn fashion, as of a horologe that felt the burden of its years, had just announced the hour of eleven.
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Category： Author：novel
On the 15th of October, 19—, at four o’clock in the afternoon, in the garden of the Monte Pincio in Rome, sat a girl, no longer in the first flush of youth, Irene Mstinskaia. She held a book in her hand, having come to the park with the object of reading in the fresh air; but, as had always been the case since her arrival in Rome, she ...
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Category： Author：novel
Five o\'clock in the morning. En route for the Gare de l\'Est. All the same, as I turn the corner of the street in which I live, I experience a feeling of heartrending distress. I stop and glance back. Then I wave my hand to the window. Bah! I shall come back.
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Category： Author：novel
It must have been a little after three o\'clock in the afternoon that it happened—the afternoon of June 3rd, 1916. It seems incredible that all that I have passed through—all those weird and terrifying experiences—should have been encompassed within so short a span as three brief months. Rather might I have experienced a cosmic cycle,...
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Category： Author：novel
IT was shortly after nine o’clock in the morning that young Lord Stranleigh of Wychwood, in a most leisurely fashion, descended the front steps of his town house into the street. The young man was almost too perfectly dressed. Every article of his costume, from his shiny hat to the polished boots, was so exactly what it should he, that...
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Category： Author：novel
At two o'clock in the morning during the month of August sounds of music could be heard proceeding from a brilliantly lighted house in Park Lane, where a ball was being given by the Countess of Kerstoke. True, the season was long since over, and though the greater part of London Society had migrated swallow-like to the South of Europe ...
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