happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
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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 epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.
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it is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
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scarlett o'hara was not beautiful, but men seldom realized it when caught by her charm as the tarleton twins were.
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there was a boy called eustace clarence scrubb, and he almost deserved it.
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ours is not a race between men, it is a race between mankind and nature.
monaconovel.com
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somewhere in la mancha, in a place whose name i do not care to remember, a gentleman lived not long ago, one of those who has a lance and ancient shield on a shelf and keeps a skinny nag and a greyhound for racing.
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all this happened, more or less.
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alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank and of having nothing to do: once or twice she had peeped into the book her sister was reading, but it had no pictures or conversations in it, "and what is the use of a book," thought alice, "without pictures or conversations?"
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i am doomed to remember a boy with a wrecked voice-not because of his voice, or because he was the smallest person i ever knew, or even because he was the instrument of my mother's death, but because he is the reason i believe in god; i am a christian because of owen meany.
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it was a pleasure to burn.
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it was a feature peculiar to the colonial wars of north america, that the toils and dangers of the wilderness were to be encountered before the adverse hosts could meet.
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whether i shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.
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all children, except one, grow up.
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