George Gissing was a British novelist, most famous for his novels The Nether World, New Grub Street, and The Odd Women. He is said to have been primarily influenced by Emile Zola.
George Gissing was a British novelist, most famous for his novels The Nether World, New Grub Street, and The Odd Women. He is said to have been primarily influenced by Emile Zola.
The sea-wind in his hair, his eyes agleam with the fresh memory of Alpine snows, Will Warburton sprang out of the cab, paid the driver a double fare, flung on to his shoulder a heavy bag and ran up, two steps at a stride, to a flat on the fourth floor of the many-tenanted building hard by Chelsea Bridge. His rat-tat-tat brought to the door a thin yellow face, cautious in espial, through the narrow opening.
"Is it you, sir?"
"All right, Mrs. Hopper! How are you?-how are you?"
He threw his bag into the passage, and cordially grasped the woman's hands.
"Dinner ready? Savagely hungry. Give me three minutes, and serve."
For about that length of time there sounded in the bedroom a splashing and a blowing; then Warburton came forth with red cheeks. He seized upon a little pile of letters and packets which lay on his writing-table, broke envelopes, rent wrappers, and read with now an ejaculation of pleasure, now a grunt of disgust, and again a mirthful half roar. Then, dinner-the feeding of a famished man of robust appetite and digestion, a man three or four years on the green side of thirty. It was a speedy business, in not much more than a quarter of an hour there disappeared a noble steak and its appurtenances, a golden-crusted apple tart, a substantial slice of ripe Cheddar, two bottles of creamy Bass.
"Now I can talk!" cried Will to his servant, as he threw himself into a deep chair, and began lighting his pipe. "What's the news? I seem to have been away three months rather than three weeks."
"Mr. Franks called yesterday, sir, late in the afternoon, when I was here cleaning. He was very glad to hear you'd be back to-day, and said he might look in to-night."
"Good! What else?"
"My brother-in-law wishes to see you, sir. He's in trouble again-lost his place at Boxon's a few days ago. I don't exac'ly know how it happened, but he'll explain everything. He's very unfortunate, sir, is Allchin."
"Tell him to come before nine to-morrow morning, if he can."
"Yes, sir. I'm sure it's very kind of you, sir."
"What else?"
"Nothing as I can think of just now, sir."
Warburton knew from the woman's way of speaking that she had something still in her mind; but his pipe being well lit, and a pleasant lassitude creeping over him, he merely nodded. Mrs. Hopper cleared the table, and withdrew.
The window looked across the gardens of Chelsea Hospital (old-time Ranelagh) to the westward reach of the river, beyond which lay Battersea Park, with its lawns and foliage. A beam of the July sunset struck suddenly through the room. Warburton was aware of it with half-closed eyes; he wished to stir himself, and look forth, but languor held his limbs, and wreathing tobacco-smoke kept his thoughts among the mountains. He might have quite dozed off had not a sudden noise from within aroused him-the unmistakable crash of falling crockery. It made him laugh, a laugh of humorous expostulation. A minute or two passed, then came a timid tap at his door, and Mrs. Hopper showed her face.
"Another accident, sir, I'm sorry to say," were her faltering words.
"Extensive?"
"A dish and two plates, I'm sorry to say, sir."
"Oh, that's nothing."
"Of course I shall make them good, sir."
"Pooh! Aren't there plates enough?"
"Oh, quite enough-just yet, sir."
Warburton subdued a chuckle, and looked with friendly smile at his domestic, who stood squeezing herself between the edge of the door and the jamb-her habit when embarrassed. Mrs. Hopper had served him for three years; he knew all her weaknesses, but thought more of her virtues, chief of which were honest intention and a moderate aptitude for plain cooking. A glance about this room would have proved to any visitor that Mrs. Hopper's ideas of cleanliness were by no means rigid, her master had made himself to a certain extent responsible for this defect; he paid little attention to dust, provided that things were in their wonted order. Mrs. Hopper was not a resident domestic; she came at stated hours. Obviously a widow, she had a poor, loose-hung, trailing little body, which no nourishment could plump or fortify. Her visage was habitually doleful, but contracted itself at moments into a grin of quaint drollery, which betrayed her for something of a humorist.
"My fingers is all gone silly to-day, sir," she pursued. "I daresay it's because I haven't had much sleep these last few nights."
"How's that?"
"It's my poor sister, sir-my sister Liza, I mean-she's had one of her worst headaches-the extra special, we call 'em. This time it's lasted more than three days, and not one minute of rest has the poor thing got."
Warburton was all sympathy; he inquired about the case as though it were that of an intimate friend. Change of air and repose were obvious remedies; no less obviously, these things were out of the question for a working woman who lived on a few shillings a week.
"Do you know of any place she could go to?" asked Warburton, adding carelessly, "if the means were provided."
Mrs. Hopper squeezed herself more tightly than ever between door and jamb. Her head was bent in an abashed way, and when she spoke it was in a thick, gurgling tone, only just intelligible.
"There's a little lodging 'ouse at Southend, sir, where we used to go when my 'usband could afford it."
"Well, look here. Get a doctor's opinion whether Southend would do; if not, which place would. And just send her away. Don't worry about the money."
Experience enabled Mrs. Hopper to interpret this advice. She stammered gratitude.
"How's your other sister-Mrs. Allchin?" Warburton inquired kindly.
"Why, sir, she's doing pretty well in her 'ealth, sir, but her baby died yesterday week. I hope you'll excuse me, sir, for all this bad news just when you come back from your holiday, and when it's natural as you don't feel in very good spirits."
Will had much ado not to laugh. On his return from a holiday, Mrs. Hopper always presumed him to be despondent in view of the resumption of daily work. He was beginning to talk of Mrs. Allchin's troubles, when at the outer door sounded a long nervous knock.
"Ha! That's Mr. Franks."
Mrs. Hopper ran to admit the visitor.
This book is a replica, produced from digital images of the original. It was scanned at the University of Toronto Libraries and may contain defects, missing
The summer day in 1874 which closed the annual session of Whitelaw College was marked by a special ceremony, preceding the wonted distribution of academic rewards.
This scarce antiquarian book is a facsimile reprint of the original. Due to its age, it may contain imperfections such as marks, notations, marginalia and flawed pages. Because we believe this work is culturally important, we have made it available as part of our commitment for protecting, preserving, and promoting the world's literature in affordable, high quality, modern editions that are true to the original work.
Trajectory presents classics of world literature with 21st century features! Our original-text editions include the following visual enhancements to foster a deeper understanding of the work: Word Clouds at the start of each chapter highlight important words. Word, sentence, paragraph counts, and reading time help readers and teachers determine chapter complexity. Co-occurrence graphs depict character-to-character interactions as well character to place interactions. Sentiment indexes identify positive and negative trends in mood within each chapter. Frequency graphs help display the impact this book has had on popular culture since its original date of publication. Use Trajectory analytics to deepen comprehension, to provide a focus for discussions and writing assignments, and to engage new readers with some of the greatest stories ever told."The Moving Picture Girls: Or, First Appearances in Photo Dramas" is part of "The Moving Picture Girls" series. "The Moving Picture Girls" is a series about the adventures of Ruth and Alice DeVere who live with their father who is an actor.
Novelist, born at Wakefield. In his novels he depicted the environment and struggles of the lower and lower middle classes with a somewhat pessimistic and depressing realism, although his last work, The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft, seemed to usher in the dawn of a somewhat brighter outlook. His other novels include Demos [1886], Thyrza [1887], The Nether World [1889], New Grub Street [1891], Born in Exile [1892], In the Year of Jubilee [1894], and The Town Traveller [1898]. He died at St. Jean de Luz in the Pyrenees.
One of George Gissing's greatest strengths as a novelist was his ability to highlight differences between socioeconomic classes and all the advantages that a higher class standing can bestow. That's the idea at the center of the gripping epic Thyrza, which Gissing himself identified as one of his favorites from his own body of work. Working-class Thyrza Trent was born with beauty, brains, and ambition—but she doesn't have the social status necessary to be able to fully leverage these gifts.
The whispers said that out of bitter jealousy, Hadley shoved Eric's beloved down the stairs, robbing the unborn child of life. To avenge, Eric forced Hadley abroad and completely cut her off. Years later, she reemerged, and they felt like strangers. When they met again, she was the nightclub's star, with men ready to pay fortunes just to glimpse her elusive performance. Unable to contain himself, Eric blocked her path, asking, "Is this truly how you earn a living now? Why not come back to me?" Hadley's lips curved faintly. "If you’re eager to see me, you’d better join the queue, darling."
Serena Vance, an unloved wife, clutched a custom-made red velvet cake to her chest, enduring the cold rain outside an exclusive Upper East Side club. She hoped this small gesture for her husband, Julian, would bridge the growing chasm between them on their third anniversary. But as she neared the VIP suite, her world shattered. Julian's cold, detached voice sliced through the laughter, revealing he considered her nothing more than a "signature on a piece of paper" for a trust fund, mocking her changed appearance and respecting only another woman, Elena. The indifference in his tone was a physical blow, a brutal severance, not heartbreak. She gently placed the forgotten cake on the floor, leaving her wedding ring and a diamond necklace as she prepared to abandon a marriage built on lies. Her old life, once a prison of quiet suffering and constant humiliation, now lay in ruins around her. Three years of trying to be seen, to be loved, were erased by a few cruel words. Why had she clung to a man who saw her as a clause in a will, a "creature," not a wife? The shame and rage hardened her heart, freezing her tears. Returning to an empty penthouse, she packed a single battered suitcase, leaving behind every symbol of her failed marriage. With a burner phone, she dialed a number she hadn't touched in a decade, whispering, "Godfather, I'm ready to come home."
Vesper's marriage to Julian Sterling was a gilded cage. One morning, she woke naked beside Damon Sterling, Julian's terrifying brother, then found a text: Julian's mistress was pregnant. Her world shattered, but the real nightmare had just begun. Julian's abuse escalated, gaslighting Vesper, funding his secret life. Damon, a germaphobic billionaire, became her unsettling anchor amidst his chaos. As "Iris," Vesper exposed Julian's mistress, Serena Sharp, sparking brutal war: poisoned drinks, a broken leg, and the horrifying truth-Julian murdered her parents, trapping Vesper in marriage. The man she married was a killer. Broken and betrayed, Vesper was caught between monstrous brothers, burning with injustice. Refusing victimhood, Vesper reclaimed her identity. Fueled by vengeance, she allied with Damon, who vowed to burn his empire for her. Julian faced justice, but matriarch Eleanor's counterattack forced Vesper's choice as a hitman aimed for her.
Maia grew up a pampered heiress-until the real daughter returned and framed her, sending Maia to prison with help from her fiancé and family. Four years later, free and married to Chris, a notorious outcast, everyone assumed Maia was finished. They soon discovered she was secretly a famed jeweler, elite hacker, celebrity chef, and top game designer. As her former family begged for help, Chris smiled calmly. "Honey, let's go home." Only then did Maia realize her "useless" husband was a legendary tycoon who'd adored her from the start.
Since she was ten, Noreen had been by Caiden's side, watching him rise from a young boy into a respected CEO. After two years of marriage, though, his visits home grew rare. Gossip among the wealthy said he despised her. Even his beloved mocked her hopes, and his circle treated her with scorn. People forgot about her decade of loyalty. She clung to memories and became a figure of ridicule, worn out from trying. They thought he'd won his freedom, but he dropped to his knees and begged, "Noreen, you're the only one I love." Leaving behind the divorce papers, she walked away.
Narine never expected to survive. Not after what was done to her body, mind, and soul. But fate had other plans. Rescued by Supreme Alpha Sargis, the kingdom's most feared ruler, she finds herself under the protection of a man she doesn't know... and a bond she doesn't understand. Sargis is no stranger to sacrifice. Ruthless, ambitious, and loyal to the sacred matebond, he's spent years searching for the soul fate promised him, never imagining she would come to him broken, on the brink of death, and afraid of her own shadow. He never meant to fall for her... but he does. Hard and fast. And he'll burn the world before letting anyone hurt her again. What begins in silence between two fractured souls slowly grows into something intimate and real. But healing is never linear. With the court whispering, the past clawing at their heels, and the future hanging by a thread, their bond is tested again and again. Because falling in love is one thing. Surviving it? That's a war of its own. Narine must decide, can she survive being loved by a man who burns like fire, when all she's ever known is how not to feel? Will she shrink for the sake of peace, or rise as Queen for the sake of his soul? For readers who believe even the most fractured souls can be whole again, and that true love doesn't save you. It stands beside you while you save yourself.
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