短篇小说 | Ali Baba and the Forty Thieves
There once lived in a town of Persia two brothers, one named Cassim and the other Ali Baba. Their father divided a small inheritance equally between them.
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短篇小说 | The Recovery
Keniston was sent about the country too: he opened art exhibitions, laid the foundation of academies, and acted in a general sense as the spokesman and apologist of art.
短篇小说 | A Jury of Her Peers
When Martha Hale opened the storm-door and got a cut of the north wind, she ran back for her big woolen scarf.
短篇小说 | The Angel at the Grave
The House stood a few yards back from the elm-shaded village street, in that semi-publicity sometimes cited as a democratic protest against old-world standards of domestic exclusiveness.
短篇小说 | Odour of Chrysanthemums
The small locomotive engine, Number 4, came clanking, stumbling down from Selston--with seven full waggons.
短篇小说 | The Duchess at Prayer
Have you ever questioned the long shuttered front of an old Italian house, that motionless mask, smooth, mute, equivocal as the face of a priest behind which buzz the secrets of the confessional?
短篇小说 | My Kinsman, Major Molineux
AFTER the kings of Great Britain had assumed the right of appointing the colonial governors, the measures of the latter seldom met with the ready and generous approbation which had been paid to those of their predecessors, under the original charters.
短篇小说 | A Venetian Night's Entertainment
"Him Venice!" said the Lascar with the big earrings; and Tony Bracknell, leaning on the high gunwale of his father's East Indiaman, the Hepzibah B., saw far off, across the morning sea, a faint vision of towers and domes dissolved in golden air.
短篇小说 | To Build a Fire
Day had broken cold and grey, exceedingly cold and grey, when the man turned aside from the main Yukon trail and climbed the high earth- bank, where a dim and little-travelled trail led eastward through the fat spruce timberland.
短篇小说 | April Showers
"BUT Guy's heart slept under the violets on Muriel's grave."
短篇小说 | The Pit and the Pendulum
I WAS sick, sick unto death, with that long agony, and when they at length unbound me, and I was permitted to sit, I felt that my senses were leaving me.
短篇小说 | Afterward
The assertion, laughingly flung out six months earlier in a bright June garden, came back to Mary Boyne with a sharp perception of its latent significance as she stood, in the December dusk, waiting for the lamps to be brought into the library.
