XX Tag: H G Wells

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The Empire of the Ants

When Captain Gerilleau received instructions to take his new gunboat, the
Benjamin Constant, to Badama on the Batemo arm of the Guaramadema
and there assist the inhabitants against a plague of ants, he suspected
the authorities of mockery.

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The Triumphs of a Taxidermist

Here are some of the secrets of taxidermy. They were told me by the taxidermist in a mood of elation. He told me them in the time between the first glass of whisky and the fourth, when a man is no longer cautious and yet not drunk. We sat in his den together; his library it was, his sitting and his eating-room-separated by a bead curtain, so far as the sense of sight went, from the noisome den where he plied his trade.

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The Story of the Late Mr. Elvesham

I set this story down, not expecting it will be believed, but, if
possible, to prepare a way of escape for the next victim. He, perhaps, may
profit by my misfortune. My own case, I know, is hopeless, and I am now in
some measure prepared to meet my fate.

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Mr. Ledbetter’s Vacation

My friend, Mr. Ledbetter, is a round-faced little man, whose natural mildness of eye is gigantically exaggerated when you catch the beam through his glasses, and whose deep, deliberate voice irritates irritable people. A certain elaborate clearness of enunciation has come with him to his present vicarage from his scholastic days, an elaborate clearness of enunciation and a certain nervous determination to be firm and correct upon all issues, important and unimportant alike.

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The Purple Pileus

Mr. Coombes was sick of life. He walked away from his unhappy home, and,
sick not only of his own existence but of everybody else’s, turned aside
down Gaswork Lane to avoid the town, and, crossing the wooden bridge that
goes over the canal to Starling’s Cottages, was presently alone in the
damp pine woods and out of sight and sound of human habitation.

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Mr. Skelmersdale in Fairyland

“There’s a man in that shop,” said the Doctor, “who has been in Fairyland.”

“Nonsense!” I said, and stared back at the shop. It was the usual village shop, post-office, telegraph wire on its brow, zinc pans and brushes outside, boots, shirtings, and potted meats in the window. “Tell me about it,” I said, after a pause.

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Miss Winchelsea’s Heart

Miss Winchelsea was going to Rome. The matter had filled her mind for a month or more, and had overflowed so abundantly into her conversation that quite a number of people who were not going to Rome, and who were not likely to go to Rome, had made it a personal grievance against her.

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The Truth about Pyecraft

He sits not a dozen yards away. If I glance over my shoulder I can see him. And if I catch his eye–and usually I catch his eye – it meets me with an expression.

It is mainly an imploring look–and yet with suspicion in it.

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