Found 95,055 results for "Matthew"
by Publius Vergilius Maro
I sing of arms and of the man, fated to be an exile, who long since left the land of Troy and came to Italy to the shore...
by Jerome Klapka Jérôme
THERE were four of us - George, and William Samuel Harris, and myself, and Montmorency.
by Francis Bacon
1579 February. His father dies, and (in June) he returns to England.
by George Orwell
Nous sommes à la ferme, à la tombée de la nuit, alors que M.Jones vient de rentrer du pub. Il est ce soir bien trop émé...
by Arthur Conan Doyle
Mr. Hungerton, her father, really was the most tactless person upon earth-a fluffy, feathery, untidy cockatoo of a man, ...
by William Shakespeare
In Antony and Cleopatra, Shakespeare dramatizes a major event in world history, the founding of the Roman Empire around ...
by Charles Dickens
MY FATHER'S FAMILY NAME being Pirrip, and my Christian name Philip, my infant tongue could make of both names nothing lo...
by Jane Austen
THE family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex.
by Lewis Carroll
Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank, and of having nothing to do: once or twice s...
by Charles Dickens
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the...
by Jonathan Swift
MY FATHER HAD a small estate in Nottinghamshire, 1 was the third of five sons.
by Όμηρος
AN ANGRY MAN-THERE IS MY STORY: THE BITTER RANcour of Achilles, prince of the house of Peleus, which brought a thousand ...
by Church of England, J. A. Maurault
Where at the Death of our late Sovereign Lord King Edward the Sixth, there remained one uniform order of Common Service,...
by Daniel Defoe, J. J. Grandville
I was born in the year 1632 in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreign...
by Jack London
I SCARCELY know where to begin, though I sometimes facetiously place the cause of it all to Charley Furuseth's credit.
by Nella Larsen, Matthew Hodgson
It was the last letter in Irene Redfield's little pile of morning mail.
by Émile Zola
ON a pitch-black, starless night, a solitary man was trudging along the main road from Marchiennes to Montsou, ten kilom...