Biography Of Alexander John Greenslade And Lady Mary Capelle

As the carriage stopped beneath the archway, Elizabeth Cockles jumped out and looked around her. Above her head was a tall archway of trees that edged the pathway to the house. As she got closer, Elizabeth realised that “mansion” was a more correct way to describe it.

“What is wrong?” my dad asks. We both grin. It is not what is wrong that makes me

“Take for instance that new house of his. It had two stories with porches, with bannisters and such things. The rest of the town looked like servants' quarters surrounding the "big house." And different from everybody else in the town he put off moving in until it had been painted, in and out. And look at the way he painted it - a glowy, sparkly white.

(The bright white interior of Bernarda’s house. Thick walls. Arched doorways with canvas curtains edged with tassels and ruffles. Rush chairs. Paintings of

Chapter 1 A young woman appears out of nowhere and quickly catches up to another who's dashing along a moonlit lane. "Are we late?" She asks as she falls into step besides the older woman. "No not yet, but we need to hurry, we don't have much time." "Follow me," the older woman replies, and her dark cloak billows about casting shadows on the high stone walls that border the lane. They walked side by side in silence for a long ways and then through a set of huge iron gates swung opened before them and onto a narrow driveway. A manor house grew out of the darkness at the end of the straight drive, lights glinting in the windows. Gravel crackled beneath their feet as speeding toward the front door, which swung inward at their approach, though

When the men finally made their way over to us, one man, tall, skin in size, about a quarter of the muscle tone of my pa’pa pushed him into the wall, while another, shorter in stature, with bright blue eyes, the color of sapphire, hit my father from behind. My father fell to the ground, blood dripping down his face, looking hopeless and feeble. I felt so discouraged, the only thing I could do was weep. My father, on the ground, turned to us and told us to run and we did. Half the way to the house, all I could think about was how hopeless I was and how much I wanted to help, but could not. After all that was my father back there, my friend, my protector, my pa’pa. When we finally made it to the porch of our house, we were out of air and I was about ready to collapse. My brother finally mustered up the energy to tell my mother and uncle what happen.

A review of the house itself suggests that an architectural hierarchy of privacy increases level by level. At first, the house seems to foster romantic sensibilities; intrigued by its architectural connotations, the narrator embarks upon its description immediately--it is the house that she wants to "talk about" (Gilman 11). Together with its landscape, the house is a "most beautiful place" that stands "quite alone . . . well back from the road, quite three miles from the village" (Gilman 11). The estate's grounds, moreover, consist of "hedges and walls and gates that lock" (Gilman 11). As such, the house and its grounds are markedly depicted as mechanisms of confinement--ancestral places situated within a legacy of control and

So this boy by the age of 14, named Tim, lived in the worst neighborhood. There were murders, kidnappings, and even robberies. Whenever Tim witnessed something so tragic as of these topics I have listed above, he started to bawl. He cried and cried and cried until his mother came in with some cookies and warm milk and fed it to him like he was still her little 1 year old. Tim was never allowed to go outside. For 1, there was this gang called, “Victorians”, and whenever someone tries to cross their path, they would rob them of their money and beat the victim up. Tim had once crossed their path, and they tried to rob Tim, but 1 of the members passed out because Tim had thrown a pipe at the member’s temple, which was located on the sides of his

My guests grew tired of all of the extravagant halls and small entertainment I had set up for them. Wishing to keep my guests pleased, I threw a masque of great magnificence. I gave my guests tasteful, yet grotesque costumes designed by my own glorious hand and an utterly bizarre ball environment. Within my abbey, I created seven rooms of many hues lit by only a fire’s gleam outside of a corresponding shade stained glass window. The last room, the seventh, I believe, was the most peculiar. I had devised an atmosphere encompassing every shade of black; however, the windows reminded all that entered of the terror raging outside: the crimson, terrific hue of blood as the lightness of the fire could not seep through the darkness of the color of

The auburn hued leaves crunched with every miserable footstep. They scattered the ground in a haphazard manner, not dissimilar to the state of the thoughts swirling through the mind of the lone man, disconsolate and determined to regain a semblance of balance in his life. He strode purposefully towards his vengeful destination. With his worn-out greased overalls and his intrinsic grey flat cap, he passed through the elaborate, elite fields of West Egg, also known as the land of ‘new money’, embarking towards this mansion.

“It was a big, squarish frame house that had once been white, decorated with cupolas and spires and scrolled balconies in the heavily lightsome style of

The New York Crystal Palace included a dome and three entrance halls projecting outwards to the streets surrounding the building. The exterior of the building constructed of cast iron and glass windows. The different wings of the new building held several exhibits, including classic pieces of sculpture, and portraits of historical figures from such notable artists as Van Dyck and Peale. The Latting Tower, when finished, would be the tallest structure in New York City and seen for miles in the city. Visitors to the observation decks

The scrawny boy had nothing after his departure from his prison home. Each hour without nourishment, his stomach growled louder and louder like the sound of a whale’s horn. Each day, limbs begin to shrink in dangerous sizes and eventually darkening his hopeless stoned heart. He begins to experience the life of a homeless, he sat down on a random street walk and made a bowl like shape with his two spotted raw-bone hands, thirst for dollar bills and food. As time flows along, he finally experienced the emotions of being homeless. Dozens of pedestrians cross the street walk, an emotionless gaze occur upon the poor vulnerable boy with a disgusted look in their faces, as if the boy’s penniless aura irritated their precious

I spent my childhood in a modest white house in northern Germany. I loved my home. I loved the gleaming stone floor. I loved the curving staircase, adorned with decorative wrought iron. I loved the narrow hallways. Best of all was the attic. It was accessed by a small sliding door tucked behind a large wardrobe. It was my secret place. It was my own world full of wonder and excitement.

Back in those days, it was the dream mansion of Charles Eisenbeis and his family. Despite his love for the castle, Charles could spend no more than ten years here as tragedy struck. First, it was his son who died. Charles Jr. as a business partner in his father’s firm found it difficult to handle his responsibilities and killed himself in the real estate office. His father, as can be expected, was utterly shattered. Hardly five years later, Charles died too.