《AROUND THE WORLD IN 80 DAYS (Completed)》Chapter 1- IN WHICH PHILEAS FOGG AND PASSEPARTOUT ACCEPT EACH OTHER
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Mr. Phileas Fogg lived, in 1872, at No. 7, Saville Row, Burlington Gardens, the house in which Sheridan died in 1814. He was one of the most noticeable members of the Reform Club, though he seemed always to avoid attracting attention; an enigmatical personage, about whom little was known, except that he was a polished man of the world. People said that he resembled Byron--at least that his head was Byronic; but he was a bearded, tranquil Byron, who might live on a thousand years without growing old.
Certainly an Englishman, it was more doubtful whether Phileas Fogg was a Londoner. He was never seen on 'Change, nor at the Bank, nor in the counting-rooms of the "City"; no ships ever came into London docks of which he was the owner; he had no public employment; he had never been entered at any of the Inns of Court, either at the Temple, or Lincoln's Inn, or Gray's Inn; nor had his voice ever resounded in the Court of Chancery, or in the Exchequer, or the Queen's Bench, or the Ecclesiastical Courts. He certainly was not a manufacturer; nor was he a merchant or a gentleman farmer. His name was strange to the scientific and learned societies, and he never was known to take part in the sage deliberations of the Royal Institution or the London Institution, the Artisan's Association, or the Institution of Arts and Sciences. He belonged, in fact, to none of the numerous societies which swarm in the English capital, from the Harmonic to that of the Entomologists, founded mainly for the purpose of abolishing pernicious insects.
Phileas Fogg was a member of the Reform, and that was all.
The way in which he got admission to this exclusive club was simple enough.
He was recommended by the Barings, with whom he had an open credit. His cheques were regularly paid at sight from his account current, which was always flush.
Was Phileas Fogg rich? Undoubtedly. But those who knew him best could not imagine how he had made his fortune, and Mr. Fogg was the last person to whom to apply for the information. He was not lavish, nor, on the contrary, avaricious; for, whenever he knew that money was needed for a noble, useful, or benevolent purpose, he supplied it quietly and sometimes anonymously. He was, in short, the least communicative of men. He talked very little, and seemed all the more mysterious for his taciturn manner. His daily habits were quite open to observation; but whatever he did was so exactly the same thing that he had always done before, that the wits of the curious were fairly puzzled.
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Had he travelled? It was likely, for no one seemed to know the world more familiarly; there was no spot so secluded that he did not appear to have an intimate acquaintance with it. He often corrected, with a few clear words, the thousand conjectures advanced by members of the club as to lost and unheard-of travellers, pointing out the true probabilities, and seeming as if gifted with a sort of second sight, so often did events justify his predictions. He must have travelled everywhere, at least in the spirit.
It was at least certain that Phileas Fogg had not absented himself from London for many years. Those who were honoured by a better acquaintance with him than the rest, declared that nobody could pretend to have ever seen him anywhere else. His sole pastimes were reading the papers and playing whist. He often won at this game, which, as a silent one, harmonised with his nature; but his winnings never went into his purse, being reserved as a fund for his charities. Mr. Fogg played, not to win, but for the sake of playing. The game was in his eyes a contest, a struggle with a difficulty, yet a motionless, unwearying struggle, congenial to his tastes.
Phileas Fogg was not known to have either wife or children, which may happen to the most honest people; either relatives or near friends, which is certainly more unusual. He lived alone in his house in Saville Row, whither none penetrated. A single domestic sufficed to serve him. He breakfasted and dined at the club, at hours mathematically fixed, in the same room, at the same table, never taking his meals with other members, much less bringing a guest with him; and went home at exactly midnight, only to retire at once to bed. He never used the cosy chambers which the Reform provides for its favoured members. He passed ten hours out of the twenty-four in Saville Row, either in sleeping or making his toilet. When he chose to take a walk it was with a regular step in the entrance hall with its mosaic flooring, or in the circular gallery with its dome supported by twenty red porphyry Ionic columns, and illumined by blue painted windows. When he breakfasted or dined all the resources of the club--its kitchens and pantries, its buttery and dairy--aided to crowd his table with their most succulent stores; he was served by the gravest waiters, in dress coats, and shoes with swan-skin soles, who proffered the viands in special porcelain, and on the finest linen; club decanters, of a lost mould, contained his sherry, his port, and his cinnamon-spiced claret; while his beverages were refreshingly cooled with ice, brought at great cost from the American lakes.
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If to live in this style is to be eccentric, it must be confessed that there is something good in eccentricity.
The mansion in Saville Row, though not sumptuous, was exceedingly comfortable. The habits of its occupant were such as to demand but little from the sole domestic, but Phileas Fogg required him to be almost superhumanly prompt and regular. On this very 2nd of October he had dismissed James Forster, because that luckless youth had brought him shaving-water at eighty-four degrees Fahrenheit instead of eighty-six; and he was awaiting his successor, who was due at the house between eleven and half-past.
Phileas Fogg was seated squarely in his armchair, his feet close together like those of a grenadier on parade, his hands resting on his knees, his body straight, his head erect; he was steadily watching a complicated clock which indicated the hours, the minutes, the seconds, the days, the months, and the years. At exactly half-past eleven Mr. Fogg would, according to his daily habit, quit Saville Row, and repair to the Reform.
A rap at this moment sounded on the door of the cosy apartment where Phileas Fogg was seated, and James Forster, the dismissed servant, appeared.
"The new servant," said he.
A young man of thirty advanced and bowed.
"You are a Frenchman, I believe," asked Phileas Fogg, "and your name is John?"
"Jean, if monsieur pleases," replied the newcomer, "Jean Passepartout, a surname which has clung to me because I have a natural aptness for going out of one business into another. I believe I'm honest, monsieur, but, to be outspoken, I've had several trades. I've been an itinerant singer, a circus-rider, when I used to vault like Leotard, and dance on a rope like Blondin. Then I got to be a professor of gymnastics, so as to make better use of my talents; and then I was a sergeant fireman at Paris, and assisted at many a big fire. But I quitted France five years ago, and, wishing to taste the sweets of domestic life, took service as a valet here in England. Finding myself out of place, and hearing that Monsieur Phileas Fogg was the most exact and settled gentleman in the United Kingdom, I have come to monsieur in the hope of living with him a tranquil life, and forgetting even the name of Passepartout."
"Passepartout suits me," responded Mr. Fogg. "You are well recommended to me; I hear a good report of you. You know my conditions?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Good! What time is it?"
"Twenty-two minutes after eleven," returned Passepartout, drawing an enormous silver watch from the depths of his pocket.
"You are too slow," said Mr. Fogg.
"Pardon me, monsieur, it is impossible--"
"You are four minutes too slow. No matter; it's enough to mention the error. Now from this moment, twenty-nine minutes after eleven, a.m., this Wednesday, 2nd October, you are in my service."
Phileas Fogg got up, took his hat in his left hand, put it on his head with an automatic motion, and went off without a word.
Passepartout heard the street door shut once; it was his new master going out. He heard it shut again; it was his predecessor, James Forster, departing in his turn. Passepartout remained alone in the house in Saville Row.
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Tales of the Rebirth Apocalypse Emperor (BL)
Have you ever wondered how your life might have turned out differently had you made different choices or decisions along the way? Sometimes, life does give you a second chance. However, it is you who decide whether that second opportunity counts… This novel revolves around our main character, Chen Murong, who can accidentally go back in time even before the apocalypse period begins to change everything humankind has done. We will follow our MC and see how he and his family react to this second chance to ensure their family and the human race's survival. --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Current release schedule: 1 Chapter/week on Saturday + extra if I have more time on the weekday If you like my writing, please consider tipping/supporting me on: PayPal: paypal.me/AmateurAuthorPen Patreon: patreon.com/singlehamster I plan to have advanced chapters on Patreon in the future for you to read as well. However, as of now, there is no early access chapter. It is only a tip jar at the moment. That being said, your generous support will help me a lot and will stabilize the flow of chapters coming. This is just the start of my journey, and I hope to progress more with your help. I am also in the process of setting up my discord. Feel free to hop over to chat with me. 😊 I will give any notice, poll, artwork about my novel there in the future too! Discord: https://discord.gg/eMaxDuHvRP That's all. I hope to see you guys there! --------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Full background: The story situates in a universe called Gondola, where countless races from numerous worlds and realities are poured in. Our MC's original world, Blue planet (similar to Earth), went through an apocalypse period for ten years and has been pulled through this universe by mysterious force as one of the human race worlds. Unfortunately, the human race is one of the weakest and most feeble races of all Gondola races. However, their sheer number and several allies have helped them escape extinction so far. Regrettably, even though there are many ants, given a sufficient amount of time, the elephant will eventually be able to destroy them all. After 50 years of pointless struggle, almost all of the last remaining humans have been hunted down by some of the strongest undead races of the Gondola, the Skeletons, the Vampires, the Werewolves, and the Demons. The few remaining humans have been found and eradicated. Our MC, Chen Murong, a member of the last humanity group, can escape the hunt from undead races for fifty years. He finally dies under the claw of Lucifer, one of the emperor-rank demons from the undead race. However, he activates one of his time magic spells with his most precious space gemstone at the moment of his last breath. Through the spell, he wakes up alive, back in his home world, and returns to the year before the apocalypse period began.
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En mi locura he hallado libertad y seguridad; la libertad de la soledad y la seguridad de no ser comprendido
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Three thousand years ago, Athena was sealed. For love, for peace, for war, and for the human realm. Betrayed by the gods, humans, and demons. She promises to bring terror when she awakens. Three thousand years now. She rests her soul within a mana-less young woman, Alice.
8 133SEMINȚELE RĂULUI. PĂDUREA ROPHION. [Romanian]
La începutul acestei lumi, când Primul Război dintre Bine și Rău a avut loc, Balanța Timpurilor s-a despărțit și multiplele ei părți s-au ascuns pe Pământ. Acei care au în puterea lor restabilirea Balanței sunt Rophionii, despre care profeția spune că v-or da naștere Unului, ființa cu sânge de om și lup curgându-i prin vene și singurul care v-a fi capabil să controleze timpul. Dar răul nu doarme. El spionează de pretutindeni, dar acolo unde este casa Rophionilor, în pădurea cu același nume, este și ascunzătoarea întunericului, care așteaptă doar momentul potrivit pentru a ataca Lumea și a o supune pe vecie. Cu toate acestea Lumea are propriile planuri și va fi cea care va decide cine va fi cel care o va conduce, în Ultima Bătălie, din Valea Tăcerii, acolo unde totul a început și unde totul se v-a sfârși, dând Rophionilor Putea Magică și darul Iubirii. Semințele Răului. Pădurea Rophion este prima carte din seria de 10 romane, care se v-or axa pe relatarea istoriilor interesante născute din Magie, Fraternitate, Iubire și Devotament, care sunt capabile să lupte împotriva răului, doar pentru a-și controla propriul suflet și pulsațiile vieții lor pe pământ. Pentru ce tip de cititor este această carte? Este posibil să-ți placă Semințele Răului. Pădurea Rophion, dacă… iubești să citești povești pline de secrete, trădări, lupte pentru supremație și o mulțime de secrete și Evenimente Epice relatate în Mitologia Internațională. **** Acest roman conține în sine Magie, Acțiune, Iubire și Suspans, incluzând în sine puterea cititorului care iubește să citească povești fantastice în care frăția prevalează asupra trădării, iar iubirea învinge Răul. (Traducere a originalului „Seeds of Evil. Rophion Forest”) (Translation into Romanian of the Original Novel "Seeds of Evil. Rophion Forest.")
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