...Naughtiest Girl 1 The Naughtiest Girl in the School By Enid Blyton Courtesy: Shahid Riaz Islamabad – Pakistan shahid.riaz@gmail.com 2 CHAPTER 1. The Naughty Spoilt Girl. "YOU'LL have to go to school, Elizabeth!" said Mrs. Allen. "I think your governess is quite right. You are spoilt and naughty, and although Daddy and 1 were going to leave you here with Miss Scott, when we went away, I think it would be better for you to go to school." Elizabeth stared at her mother in dismay. What, leave her home? And her pony and her dog? Go and be with a lot of children she would hate! Oh no, she wouldn't go! "I'll be good with Miss Scott," she said. "You've said that before," said her mother, "Miss Scott says she can't stay with you any longer. Elizabeth, is it true that you put earwigs in her bed last night?" Elizabeth giggled. "Yes," she said. "Miss Scott is so frightened of them! It's silly to be afraid of earwigs, isn't it?" "It is much sillier to put them into somebody's bed," said Mrs. Allen sternly. "You have been spoilt, and you think you can do what you like! You are an only child, and we love you so much, Daddy and I, that I think we have given you too many lovely things, and allowed you too much freedom." "Mummy, if you send me to school, I shall be so naughty there that they'll send me back home again," said Elizabeth, shaking her curls back. She was a pretty girt with laughing blue eyes and dark brown curls. All her life she had done as she liked. Six governesses...
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...The Picture of Dorian Gray Oscar Wilde This eBook was designed and published by Planet PDF. For more free eBooks visit our Web site at http://www.planetpdf.com/. To hear about our latest releases subscribe to the Planet PDF Newsletter. The Picture of Dorian Gray Chapter I The studio was filled with the rich odor of roses, and when the light summer wind stirred amidst the trees of the garden there came through the open door the heavy scent of the lilac, or the more delicate perfume of the pinkflowering thorn. From the corner of the divan of Persian saddle-bags on which he was lying, smoking, as usual, innumerable cigarettes, Lord Henry Wotton could just catch the gleam of the honey-sweet and honey-colored blossoms of the laburnum, whose tremulous branches seemed hardly able to bear the burden of a beauty so flame-like as theirs; and now and then the fantastic shadows of birds in flight flitted across the long tussore-silk curtains that were stretched in front of the huge window, producing a kind of momentary Japanese effect, and making him think of those pallid jade-faced painters who, in an art that is necessarily immobile, seek to convey the sense of swiftness and motion. The sullen murmur of the bees shouldering their way through the long unmown grass, or circling with monotonous insistence round the black-crocketed spires of the early June hollyhocks, seemed to make the stillness 2 of 250 The Picture of Dorian Gray more oppressive...
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...HARRY POTTER AND THE PRISONER OF AZKABAN BY J.K. ROWLING CHAPTER ONE OWL POST Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard. It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, ‘Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.’ The quill paused at the top of a likely looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read: Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various...
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...Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban By J.K. Rowling CHAPTER ONE Owl Post Harry Potter was a highly unusual boy in many ways. For one thing, he hated the summer holidays more than any other time of year. For another, he really wanted to do his homework but was forced to do it in secret, in the dead of night. And he also happened to be a wizard. It was nearly midnight, and he was lying on his stomach in bed, the blankets drawn right over his head like a tent, a flashlight in one hand and a large leather-bound book (A History of Magic by Bathilda Bagshot) propped open against the pillow. Harry moved the tip of his eagle-feather quill down the page, frowning as he looked for something that would help him write his essay, ‘Witch Burning in the Fourteenth Century Was Completely Pointless — discuss.’ The quill paused at the top of a likely looking paragraph. Harry pushed his round glasses up the bridge of his nose, moved his flashlight closer to the book, and read: Non-magic people (more commonly known as Muggles) were particularly afraid of magic in medieval times, but not very good at recognizing it. On the rare occasion that they did catch a real witch or wizard, burning had no effect whatsoever. The witch or wizard would perform a basic Flame-Freezing Charm and then pretend to shriek with pain while enjoying a gentle, tickling sensation. Indeed, Wendelin the Weird enjoyed being burned so much that she allowed herself to be caught no less than forty-seven times in various...
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...Sources: Filmography, Bibliography and Electronic Sources 2 Introduction „What’s it all about?“ is not only the famous last question of the protagonist in Alfie but also the title of Michael Caine’s autobiography. Born 1933 in London’s poor East End as Maurice Joseph Micklewhite, he started acting in the late 1940s and soon became Michael Caine. Though he changed his name he never tried to hide his past and his Cockney accent gives away his working class origin. It was a hard and long journey to fame for Caine. His first steps into show business were acting with amateur groups, then playing some parts in provincial theatres and later some appearances on British television. It was only after more than 20 years that he got the audiences’ and critics’ attention for his role in Zulu. But it brought him rather critical notice than the hoped for éclat. In 1967 Caine’s career got a considerable boost when he was representing the main character in Alfie - a role that seemed to be made especially for him. Although almost every actor in question shunned this role, Caine was to win his first Oscar nomination for his performance as the relentless Casanova hidden behind the Cockney chauffeur. The box-office results for Alfie were the biggest-ever for a British movie in the United States. How was it possible for Michael Caine to turn into a star almost over night?...
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...errrCHAPTER 1 MOON. GLORIOUS MOON. FULL, FAT, REDDISH moon, the night as light as day, the moonlight flooding down across the land and bringing joy, joy, joy. Bringing too the full-throated call of the tropical night, the soft and wild voice of the wind roaring through the hairs on your arm, the hollow wail of starlight, the teeth-grinding bellow of the moonlight off the water. All calling to the Need. Oh, the symphonic shriek of the thousand hiding voices, the cry of the Need inside, the entity, the silent watcher, the cold quiet thing, the one that laughs, the Moondancer. The me that was not-me, the thing that mocked and laughed and came calling with its hunger. With the Need. And the Need was very strong now, very careful cold coiled creeping crackly cocked and ready, very strong, very much ready now—and still it waited and watched, and it made me wait and watch. I had been waiting and watching the priest for five weeks now. The Need had been prickling and teasing and prodding at me to find one, find the next, find this priest. For three weeks I had known he was it, he was next, we belonged to the Dark Passenger, he and I together. And that three weeks I had spent fighting the pressure, the growing Need, rising in me like a great wave that roars up and over the beach and does not recede, only swells more with every tick of the bright night's clock. But it was careful time, too, time spent making sure. Not making sure of the priest, no, I was long sure of him. Time spent to...
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...In films that combined comedy with extraordinary physical risks, Buster Keaton played a brave spirit who took the universe on its own terms, and gave no quarter. I'm immersed in his career right now, viewing all of the silent features and many of the shorts with students at the University of Chicago. Having already written about Keaton's "The General" (1927) in this series, I thought to choose another title. "The Navigator," perhaps, or "Steamboat Bill, Jr.," or "Our Hospitality." But they are all of a piece; in an extraordinary period from 1920 to 1929, he worked without interruption on a series of films that make him, arguably, the greatest actor-director in the history of the movies. Most of these movies were long thought to be lost. "The General," with Buster as a train engineer in the Civil War, was always available, hailed as one of the supreme masterpieces of silent filmmaking. But other features and shorts existed in shabby, incomplete prints, if at all, and it was only in the 1960s that film historians began to assemble and restore Keaton's lifework. Now almost everything has been recovered, restored, and is available on DVDs and tapes that range from watchable to sparkling. It's said that Chaplin wanted you to like him, but Keaton didn't care. I think he cared, but was too proud to ask. His films avoid the pathos and sentiment of the Chaplin pictures, and usually feature a jaunty young man who sees an objective and goes after it in the face of the most daunting obstacles...
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...told by Miss Fellows, my landlady, that Mr. Alroy Kear wished me to ring him up at once, I felt that I could safely ignore his request. “Is that the writer?” she asked me. “It is.” She gave the telephone a friendly glance. “Shall I get him?” “No, thank you.” “What shall I say if he rings again?” “Ask him to leave a message.” “Very good, sir.” She pursed her lips. She took the empty siphon, swept the room with a look to see that it was tidy, and went out. Miss Fellows was a great novel reader. I was sure that she had read all Roy’s books. Her disapproval of my casualness suggested that she had read them with admiration. When I got home again, I found a note in her bold, legible writing on the sideboard. Mr. Kear rang up twice. Can you lunch with him to-morrow? If not what day will suit you? I raised my eyebrows. I had not seen Roy for three months and then only for a few minutes at a party; he had been very friendly, he always was, and when we separated he had expressed his hearty regret that we met so seldom. “London’s awful,” he said. “One never has time to see any of the people one wants to. Let’s lunch together one day next week, shall we?” “I’d like to,” I replied. “I’ll look at my book when I get home and ring you up.” “All right.” I had not known Roy for twenty years without learning that he always kept in the upper left-hand pocket of his waistcoat...
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...question to pick up leads about you. You can be 100% sure that whatever you said in Introduction (Abt your skills, Academics etc) will be the topic of discussion later. So you better prepare yourself for a detailed discussion on every word you say at the time of introduction. If you think you are good in a particular area (Example Network security) touch upon that area in the introduction. (While talking about your skillset). By this you are inviting the person to ask you questions in your favorite area. Instead if you give a long and whole history of life, work & skillset. You are in a position of disadvantage by opening up everything. It's a clever act. But belive me it pays off well. BEST ANSWER: Start with the present and tell why you are well qualified for the position. Remember that the key to all successful interviewing is to match your qualifications to what the interviewer is looking for. In other words you must sell what the buyer is buying. This is the single most important strategy in job hunting. So, before you answer this or any question it's imperative that you try to uncover your interviewer's greatest need, want, problem or goal. To do so, make you take these two steps: 1. Do all the homework you can before the interview to uncover this person's wants and needs (not the generalized needs of the industry or company) 2. As early as you can in the interview, ask for a more complete description of what the position entails. You might say: “I have...
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...A Painted House John Grisham Chapter 1 The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waist-high to my father, over my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a "good crop." They were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism only when discussing the weather and the crops. There was too much sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands, or the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the markets. On the most perfect of days, my mother would quietly say to me, "Don't worry. The men will find something to worry about." Pappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor when we went searching for the hill people. They were paid for every hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year, according to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard rumors that a farmer over in Lake City was offering $1.60. This played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never talked when he drove, and this was because, according to my mother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized vehicles. His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our old John Deere tractor, it was our sole means of transportation. This was no particular problem except when...
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...A Painted House John Grisham Chapter 1 The hill people and the Mexicans arrived on the same day. It was a Wednesday, early in September 1952. The Cardinals were five games behind the Dodgers with three weeks to go, and the season looked hopeless. The cotton, however, was waist-high to my father, over my head, and he and my grandfather could be heard before supper whispering words that were seldom heard. It could be a "good crop." They were farmers, hardworking men who embraced pessimism only when discussing the weather and the crops. There was too much sun, or too much rain, or the threat of floods in the lowlands, or the rising prices of seed and fertilizer, or the uncertainties of the markets. On the most perfect of days, my mother would quietly say to me, "Don't worry. The men will find something to worry about." Pappy, my grandfather, was worried about the price for labor when we went searching for the hill people. They were paid for every hundred pounds of cotton they picked. The previous year, according to him, it was $1.50 per hundred. He'd already heard rumors that a farmer over in Lake City was offering $1.60. This played heavily on his mind as we rode to town. He never talked when he drove, and this was because, according to my mother, not much of a driver herself, he was afraid of motorized vehicles. His truck was a 1939 Ford, and with the exception of our old John Deere tractor, it was our sole means of transportation. This was no particular problem except when...
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...foreign port. Wilson was standing quite still, contemplating with a whimsical smile the slanting street, with its worn paving, its irregular, gravely colored houses, and the row of naked trees on which the thin sunlight was still shining. The gleam of the river at the foot of the hill made him blink a little, not so much because it was too bright as because he found it so pleasant. The few passers-by glanced at him unconcernedly, and even the children who hurried along with their school-bags under their arms seemed to find it perfectly natural that a tall brown gentleman should be standing there, looking up through his glasses at the gray housetops. The sun sank rapidly; the silvery light had faded from the bare boughs and the watery twilight was setting in when Wilson at last walked down the hill, descending into cooler and cooler depths of grayish shadow. His nostril, long unused to it, was quick to detect the smell of wood smoke in the air, blended with the odor of moist spring earth and the saltiness that came up the river with the tide. He crossed Charles Street between jangling street cars and shelving lumber drays, and after a moment of uncertainty wound into Brimmer Street. The street was quiet, deserted, and hung with a thin bluish haze. He had already fixed his sharp eye upon the house which he reasoned should be his objective point, when he noticed a woman approaching rapidly from the opposite direction. Always an interested observer of women, Wilson would have...
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...conceal her questing spirit and eagerness for life. Sensibly dressed in a blue caped coat and tarn o'shanter bought to last, a leather music case propped against the wall beside her, she was a familiar figure to the passers-by: to ancient Dr. Ferguson, tottering across the willow-fringed bridge in inner pursuit of an errant Indo-Germanic verb; to a gardener trimming the edges of the grass, who raised his cap to her. Professor Morton's clever daughter; Miss Morton's biddable niece. To grow up in Cambridge was to be fortunate indeed. To be able to look at this marvelous city each day was a blessing of which one should never tire. Harriet, crumbling bread into the water for the world's most blase ducks, had told herself this again and again. But it is not cities which make the destinies of eighteen-year-old girls, it is people— and as she gazed at the lazy, muddy river and thought of her future and her home, her eyes held an expression which would have better become a little gutter starveling— a bleak and shipwrecked look devoid of happiness and hope. Professor Morton was already in his forties when, at a reading party in Switzerland, he met an English girl working as a governess to the children of a Swiss industrialist...
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...This page intentionally left blank English Grammar Understanding the Basics Looking for an easy-to-use guide to English grammar? This handy introduction covers all the basics of the subject, using a simple and straightforward style. Students will ¢nd the book’s step-by-step approach easy to follow and be encouraged by its non-technical language. Requiring no prior knowledge of English grammar, the information is presented in small steps, with objective techniques to help readers apply new concepts. With clear explanations and well-chosen examples, the book gives students the tools to understand the mysteries of English grammar as well as the perfect foundation from which to move on to more advanced topics. E V E L Y N P . A L T E N B E R G is Professor in the Department of Speech-Language-Hearing Sciences at Hofstra University, NewYork. R O B E R T M . VA G O is Professor and Chair in the Department of Linguistics and Communication Disorders at Queens College, City University of NewYork. English Grammar Understanding the Basics EV E LY N P. A LT EN B E RG Hofstra University and ROB E RT M . VAG O Queens College and the Graduate Center City University of NewYork CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS Cambridge, New York, Melbourne, Madrid, Cape Town, Singapore, São Paulo, Delhi, Dubai, Tokyo Cambridge University Press The Edinburgh Building, Cambridge CB2 8RU, UK Published in the United States of America by Cambridge University Press, New York www.cambridge...
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...to be one of the most influential writers of the 20th century. He is best known for his landmark novels Ulysses (1922) and Finnegans Wake (1939), the short story collection Dubliners (1914) and the semi-autobiographical novel A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916). Although his adult life was largely spent outside the country, Joyce's fictional universe is firmly rooted in Dublin and provide the settings and much of the subject matter for all his fiction. In particular, his tempestuous early relationship with the Irish Roman Catholic Church is reflected through a similar inner conflict in his recurrent alter ego Stephen Dedalus. As the result of his minute attentiveness to a personal locale and his self-imposed exile and influence throughout Europe, Joyce became simultaneously one of the most cosmopolitan and one of the most local of all the great English language writers. Source: Wikipedia 2 Chapter 1 The Sisters There was no hope for him this time: it was the third stroke. Night after night I had passed the house (it was vacation time) and studied the lighted square of window: and night after night I had found it lighted in the same way, faintly and evenly. If he was dead, I thought, I would see the reflection of candles on the darkened blind, for I knew that two candles must be set at the head of a corpse. He had often said to me: I am not long for this world and I had thought his words idle. Now I knew they were true. Every night as I gazed up at the window I said...
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