The Classical Language of Architecture

by John N. Summerson, Alan Powers

Babbitt

by Sinclair Lewis

THE towers of Zenith aspired above the morning mist; austere towers of steel and cement and limestone, sturdy as cliffs ...

Ivanhoe

by Sir Walter Scott

In that pleasant district of merry England which is watered by the river Don, there extended in ancient times a large fo...

White Fang

by Jack London

DARK spruce forest frowned on either side the frozen waterway.

The Awakening

by Kate Chopin

A green and yellow parrot, which hung in a cage outside the door, kept repeating over and over: "Allez vous-en! Allez vo...

The Secret Garden

by Frances Hodgson Burnett

Near everyone agreed Mary Lennox was a most disagreeable child.

Treasure Island

by Robert Louis Stevenson

SQUIRE TRELAWNEY, Doctor Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars ab...

Middlemarch

by George Eliot, Jessica Hische

MISS BROOKE had that kind of beauty which seems to be thrown into relief by poor dress.

Hard Times

by Charles Dickens

NOW, what I want is, Facts.

The Jungle

by Upton Sinclair

THERE'S A BOARDINGHOUSE NOT FAR FROM HERE.

Ethan Frome

by Edith Wharton

I HAD the story, bit by bit, from various people and, as generally happens in such cases, each time it was a different s...

The Scarlet Pimpernel

by Emma Orczy

A surging, seething, murmuring crowd of beings that are human only in name, for to the eye and ear they seem naught but ...

The Sea-Wolf

by Jack London

I SCARCELY know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit.

A dictionary of the English language

by Samuel Johnson

Jane Eyre

by Charlotte Brontë

There was no possibility of taking a walk that day.

Matilda

by Roald Dahl

It's a funny thing about mothers and fathers.

Dubliners

by James Joyce

THERE WAS no hope for him tins time: it was the third stroke.

The Railway Children

by Edith Nesbit

The beginning of things - They were not railway children at the beginning...

Little Women

by Louisa May Alcott

"CHRISTMAS won't be Christmas without any presents," grumbled Jo, lying on the rug.

Germinal

by Émile Zola

ON a pitch-black, starless night, a solitary man was trudging along the main road from Marchiennes to Montsou, ten kilom...