Once in a little village forgotten by time there lived two feuding families: the Toussaints and the de Colvilles.
Other families inhabited Briecourt in Northern France but their tranquil lives escape memory. As with most enduring feuds, no one knows exactly why it began. Some say it was over un aventure . . . an indiscreet love between one man and a woman not his wife. Others insist money was the cause, a squabble between the miller and the baker over the price of flour. Still others recall it beginning with a simple difference of opinion on the faults and merits of Napoleon between two old men sharing a cup of chocolate . . . It is not, however, the origin but rather the result that matters. One hundred years later, even the purest flour made into the flakiest pastry would leave a bitter taste if made by one clan and sampled by the other. Except for one brief moment in history, the feud rages to this day . . .
|
|
Read more...
|
|
Once there was a young man who came of age just as war erupted, a war reaching farther than the world had ever known.
His country, his home, his parents, his very future—all were threatened by an enemy whose power stretched wide. He shared only one belief with his oppressors: that the written word is the immortality of speech. Because of the oppression, he could not roar as they did, but found a way to join a whisper so incessant that even his enemies stopped to listen…
|
|
Read more...
|
Once there was a country that wanted a turn being a great and mighty empire.
They thought their freedom was at stake when the countries around them matched their race for armaments. To protect that freedom and to make a try for their mighty empire, they ordered their army—an army with a glorious history of excellence—to fight.
|
|
Read more...
|
Washington, D.C.: February 28, 1917
With the telephone ringing amid the machine-gun staccato of a dozen typewriters, Liesel Bonner didn't hear her name. But when she saw the frown creasing Mr. Hodges's brow as he headed her way, she knew he must have called her more than once. Beyond him, Henry Miller, the senior clerk of the large law office, sent Liesel an anxious glance from behind round spectacles resting on his nose.
|
|
Read more...
|
Raindrops spattered the windshield of my car, leaving see-through polka dots. Then they came down harder, each thwack pummeling any remnant of symmetrical design. Instinctively I reached for the wiper. But my hand stopped midway, almost as if it knew before my brain told me movement would be the wrong thing to do. A parked car, across from a schoolyard, with someone inside . . . lurking . . .
|
|
Read more...
|
|
|
|
|
<< Start < Prev 1 2 Next > End >>
|
|
Page 1 of 2 |
