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While BrowzerBooks welcomes honest competition that goes to the original sources and republishes these books as they choose, thieves "borrowing" our work will find themselves embarrassed, in court and out. Our sources are obvious and easily found; do the right thing, and find them.

Beth Norvell:  Winston was by nature a gentleman; almost before he had grasped the full significance of it all he stepped silently backward, and gently closed the door. For an uncertain moment he remained there staring blankly at the wood, that haunting memory once again mocking every vain attempt to associate this girl-face with some other he had known before. Finally, leaving valise and overcoat lying in the hall, he retraced his way slowly down the stairs.

"Tom," and the young man leaned against the rough counter, his voice grown graver, "there chances to be a woman at present occupying that room you just assigned me."Winston was by nature a gentleman; almost before he had grasped the full significance of it all he stepped silently backward, and gently closed the door. For an uncertain moment he remained there staring blankly at the wood, that haunting memory once again mocking every vain attempt to associate this girl-face with some other he had known before. Finally, leaving valise and overcoat lying in the hall, he retraced his way slowly down the stairs.

"Tom," and the young man leaned against the rough counter, his voice grown graver, "there chances to be a woman at present occupying that room you just assigned me."

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Margaret Tudor  When I began this tale of our captivity it was with the hope that I might find some means of sending it to friends, in this country or in England, who would interest themselves in obtaining our release. However, from what Mr. Collins told me, I feel assured that news of Mr. Rivers's capture has already been sent to their Lordships the proprietors, and this record of mine seems now but wasted labour. Yet from time to time, for my own solace, I shall add to it; and perchance, some day in safety and freedom, I and -- -- another -- -- may together read its tear-stained pages.
This day I have completed the seventeenth year of my age. It is a double anniversary, for one year ago this night -- it being the eve of our departure from England -- I first set eyes upon my dear love.

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The Venus From Moscow  by Pushkin.  A very nice, almost mystical short romance from Paris where everybody still cuddles. Elizabeth is a penniless but sweet young thing living with a mean-spirited but wealthy old Russian Countess.  One day Elizabeth glances out her window and there on the street below is this handsome young officer in the Engineers corp. Naturally, Elizabeth shrinks back from the window and clutches at her heart.  Here it is, just like it happens in the Russian romance novels - and she is stricken with love, on the spot. "He is in love with me and hoping to get my attention by posting himself there on my Parisian street corner. The swirling snow is turning his lips almost blue on this bitterly cold afternoon, that he ignores because the heat of his passion is keeping his feet and his heart warm. Elizabeth nearly swoons again. Well, I won't ruin the story for you. Download this novel and read it for yourself, but I will tell you that with Pushkin at the author's throttle you can look in a dozen mirrors and never know who is the fairest one of them all until the last snowflake melts.

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The Mummy's Left Foot: It is hard to chase your foot down through the dusty corridors of time when it has such devilish help in getting away, but then her luck began to turn: Suddenly a spark of wheeling light twirled in a stream of dusty sun beams and I caught a gleam of sparkle on the ankle of a woman's charming foot. How can I describe that foot, or the impact it made upon me? Every angle, every curve in it was perfect, perfect when I first looked upon that sweet left foot that I took for a fragment torn off of some antique Venus that had been shattered in some ancient earthquake, perhaps. Ah, but I was dreaming, as one does, you know, when the romance spirit rises up into the head and claims the soul.

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Meadows and Myst: Where do thoughts go at the end of day? Do they dance through the meadows and climb to the stars on the evening myst? And what if someone steals them before they leave, someone snuggling close to you, someone fascinated, ravenously fascinated with every word you say? Can you break the bond set that night? Can you make yourself stay away? When a poet turns his fancy to writing a novel it turns into the story of a playwright composing a play and a sculptor composing songs. One can naturally expect daylight shadows to give forth radiant butterflies, but then ladies of darkness leap across the stage of time and the poet sees his play being read from the lips of the greatest novelist of the century --word for word, his own, right up to the thrilling end. Can he find his way back to the island and wind his way through the bright meadows and the evening's thickening myst? For Life has kissed me full upon the lips as it paused in fleeting by, but I left no impression there, nor am I myst.

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