Just a few days ago I invited Yulia Vassilyevna, the governess of my children, to come to my study.
He—for there could be no doubt of his sex, though the fashion of the time did something to disguise it—was in the act of slicing at the head of a Moor which swung from the rafters.
Stately, plump Buck Mulligan came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed.
Many years later, as he faced the firing squad, Colonel Aureliano Buendía was to remember that distant afternoon when his father took him to discover ice.
It began as a mistake.
Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, From ancient grudge break to new mutiny, Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
He was an old man who fished alone in a skiff in the Gulf Stream and he had gone eighty-four days now without catching a fish.
MOTHER died today. Or, maybe, yesterday; I can’t be sure.
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.