The three-story building looked big enough to cover a city block.
He told his wonderful story to the king; but the king would not believe him.
That's an incredible story, Martha.
It is a sad story, but if you will try to restrain your tears I will tell you about it.
What's the story on sweet Lydia?
"Got time for a long story?" he asked.
I must tell you, mon cher," he continued in the sad and measured tones of a man who intends to tell a long story, "that our name is one of the most ancient in France."
I could make up some story; maybe I'm writing a magazine piece.
They spouted some cock-and-bull story that their mother always wanted them to have the property.
His story checked out, and after extensive questioning, the police released him.
"It's a complicated story, you know," said the adjutant.
Just as this kid's leaving town, she puts this story on you, huh?
Kutuzov suddenly cried in an agitated voice, evidently picturing vividly to himself from Prince Andrew's story the condition Russia was in.
The ancients have left us model heroic poems in which the heroes furnish the whole interest of the story, and we are still unable to accustom ourselves to the fact that for our epoch histories of that kind are meaningless.
The house was a two-story building with a wide wraparound porch.
Gabriel smiled, entertained as much by the story as he was by Cora's visible exasperation.
If you could only read, you might learn that story and enjoy it.
Everything Miss Sullivan taught me she illustrated by a beautiful story or a poem.
And with a Frenchman's easy and naive frankness the captain told Pierre the story of his ancestors, his childhood, youth, and manhood, and all about his relations and his financial and family affairs, "ma pauvre mere" playing of course an important part in the story.
Maybe Sarah was making up a story to cover up for Yancey.
I left a message, from Tommy, his so called fishing buddy, saying I had a fish story for him and requesting him to call as soon as possible.
"It's a much longer story than I have time for," he replied.
The chance of anyone believing the story was practically nil.
Deidre's careful story didn't even make it to her tongue.
But don't you lose heart, Jim, for I'm sure this isn't the end of our story, by any means.
"But I should like to know the story which this book tells," said Alfred.
That night when Christopher went home he had a wonderful story to tell.
Perhaps this was a confused recollection of the story I had heard not long before about Red Riding Hood.
From time to time she smoothed the folds of her dress, and whenever the story produced an effect she glanced at Anna Pavlovna, at once adopted just the expression she saw on the maid of honor's face, and again relapsed into her radiant smile.
The guy is a story and a half.
In a speech to the House of Representatives at this same time, Congressman Davy Crockett told the story of getting chewed out by a constituent for voting for a $20,000 emergency relief bill for the homeless in a city just wiped out by a fire.
Lydia Larkin thought the story was nonsense.
Besides, I'd heard the story in general from my mother all my life—not about Paul's involvement, but Josh the randy miner and teenage Edith.
Then he began with the first word on the first page and read the first story aloud without making one mistake.
So he sat down and wrote a wonderful story, which he called "The Adventures of Robinson Crusoe."
This is the story which Mr. Defoe wrote.
What boy or girl has not heard the story of King Robert Brace and the spider?
You might remember the story of Kyle MacDonald who famously traded up from one red paperclip to a house, one small exchange at a time between July 2005 and July 2006.
Every dead soldier has a face, a story, and a bereaved family.
That's what interests me about this story (which may or may not be purely true): What Simonides did—recalling the names and locations of everyone at a large banquet—is described as entirely possible and an enviable, practical skill.
Then she told me that she had a beautiful story about a little boy which she was sure I should like better than "The Scarlet Letter."
A little girl in a story was not courageous.
Thus the captain touchingly recounted the story of his love for a fascinating marquise of thirty-five and at the same time for a charming, innocent child of seventeen, daughter of the bewitching marquise.
Listening to the story of the struggle between love and duty, Pierre saw before his eyes every minutest detail of his last meeting with the object of his love at the Sukharev water tower.
Whether it was the wine he had drunk, or an impulse of frankness, or the thought that this man did not, and never would, know any of those who played a part in his story, or whether it was all these things together, something loosened Pierre's tongue.
More than anything else in Pierre's story the captain was impressed by the fact that Pierre was very rich, had two mansions in Moscow, and that he had abandoned everything and not left the city, but remained there concealing his name and station.
Maybe there was nothing going on, but gut instinct said there was a story here – something big.
But that's another story for another day.
In any event, she's got one story and she's sticking to it like a nightly prayer, at least for now.
I'd tell her real story, as much as she'd allow, while still maintaining her absolute privacy.
Ethel had moved on to a story of a new gambling ship sailing out of Lynn.
I'd passed over the story of an abandoned infant in a Logan Airport rest room.
Dusty was prepared for the worst, but Darian's story left him speechless.
It was a tragic love story, one she knew the end to and dreaded seeing how it came to be that way.
There's more to the story than what you know.
The only other soul she'd touched had told her its life story in a blink of the eye, terrifying her.
Besides, if you buy her story of years of happy marriage, it doesn't point to any untoward reason for Dawkins to seek her out before meeting her.
While Dean had briefly touched on his search for Martha's bones at the park that morning, he and Cynthia now repeated the story in greater detail.
Nice story, but I think you have an overactive imagination.
But you're not telling me the whole story either, are you?
The Deans took turns relating the story, careful to include all the pertinent details.
She was quick to deny that they were the ones she'd found, but they continued with the story without asking her the details of her initial discovery.
Gabriel hadn't wanted to believe her story of Darkyn combining the two Deidres into one, but it certainly seemed possible.
Whatever happened, there had to be more to the story than what Deidre told him.
"But the best part of it is the story which it tells," said their mother.
Old story-tellers say that he alighted on the back of a large fish, called a dolphin, which had been charmed by his music and was swimming near the ship.
I will tell you another story of the same brave and famous king.
Of what other story does this remind you?
The famous men of whom I have told you in this story are commonly called the Seven Wise Men of Greece.
I tell this story to make a comparison between modern times and the past.
The story of the brave men who had fought on the spot where we stood excited me greatly.
But I persisted, and an accident soon occurred which resulted in the breaking down of this great barrier--I heard the story of Ragnhild Kaata.
A little story called "The Frost King," which I wrote and sent to Mr. Anagnos, of the Perkins Institution for the Blind, was at the root of the trouble.
I wrote the story when I was at home, the autumn after I had learned to speak.
I thought then that I was "making up a story," as children say, and I eagerly sat down to write it before the ideas should slip from me.
I spoke up and said, "Oh, no, it is my story, and I have written it for Mr. Anagnos."
Accordingly I copied the story and sent it to him for his birthday.
I carried the little story to the post-office myself, feeling as if I were walking on air.
Something I said made her think she detected in my words a confession that I did remember Miss Canby's story of "The Frost Fairies," and she laid her conclusions before Mr. Anagnos, although I had told her most emphatically that she was mistaken.
But the fact remains that Miss Canby's story was read to me once, and that long after I had forgotten it, it came back to me so naturally that I never suspected that it was the child of another mind.
Miss Canby herself wrote kindly, "Some day you will write a great story out of your own head, that will be a comfort and help to many."
Since the publication of "The Story of My Life" in the Ladies' Home Journal, Mr. Anagnos has made a statement, in a letter to Mr. Macy, that at the time of the "Frost King" matter, he believed I was innocent.
I read my first connected story in May, 1887, when I was seven years old, and from that day to this I have devoured everything in the shape of a printed page that has come within the reach of my hungry finger tips.
The name of the story was "Little Lord Fauntleroy," and she promised to read it to me the following summer.
But we did not begin the story until August; the first few weeks of my stay at the seashore were so full of discoveries and excitement that I forgot the very existence of books.
When she returned almost the first thing we did was to begin the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy."
Before we began the story Miss Sullivan explained to me the things that she knew I should not understand, and as we read on she explained the unfamiliar words.
I was familiar with the story of Troy before I read it in the original, and consequently I had little difficulty in making the Greek words surrender their treasures after I had passed the borderland of grammar.
Although she did not think I should understand, she began to spell into my hand the story of Joseph and his brothers.
The unusual language and repetition made the story seem unreal.
One reading was sufficient to stamp every detail of the story upon my memory forever.
I also knew Mr. Charles Dudley Warner, the most delightful of story-tellers and the most beloved friend, whose sympathy was so broad that it may be truly said of him, he loved all living things and his neighbour as himself.
Thus it is that my friends have made the story of my life.
Helen Keller's letters are important, not only as a supplementary story of her life, but as a demonstration of her growth in thought and expression--the growth which in itself has made her distinguished.
Teacher told me about kind gentleman I shall be glad to read pretty story I do read stories in my book about tigers and lions and sheep.
I will tell you a little story about Plymouth.
I thank you very much for the beautiful story about Lord Fauntleroy, and so does teacher.
I am reading a very sad story, called "Little Jakey."
It is a very pretty story, and I will tell it to you some time.
It is fitting that Miss Keller's "Story of My Life" should appear at this time.
The way in which Miss Keller wrote her story shows, as nothing else can show, the difficulties she had to overcome.
She saw, too, that her story properly fell into short chapters and redivided it.
In rewriting the story, Miss Keller made corrections on separate pages on her braille machine.
Yesterday I read to her the story of 'Macbeth,' as told by Charles and Mary Lamb.
I took Helen and my Botany, "How Plants Grow," up in the tree, where we often go to read and study, and I told her in simple words the story of plantlife.
She has made me repeat the story of little Red Riding Hood so often that I believe I could say it backward.
The other day Helen came across the word grandfather in a little story and asked her mother, "Where is grandfather?" meaning her grandfather.
By signs she made me understand that she wished another story, and I gave her a book containing very short stories, written in the most elementary style.
When she is telling a child's story, or one with pathos in it, her voice runs into pretty slurs from one tone to another.
The original story was read to her from a copy of "Andersen's Stories," published by Leavitt & Allen Bros., and may be found on p. 97 of Part I. in that volume.
This is shown in a little story she wrote in October last at the home of her parents in Tuscumbia, which she called "Autumn Leaves."
As we had never seen or heard of any such story as this before, we inquired of her where she read it; she replied, "I did not read it; it is my story for Mr. Anagnos's birthday."
This story, "Frost Fairies," appeared in a book written by Miss Margaret T. Canby, entitled "Birdie and his Fairy Friends."
As I had never read this story, or even heard of the book, I inquired of Helen if she knew anything about the matter, and found she did not.
She was utterly unable to recall either the name of the story or the book.
No one shall be allowed to think it was anything wrong; and some day she will write a great, beautiful story or poem that will make many people happy.
I give below a portion of Miss Canby's story, "The Rose Fairies," and also Helen's letter to Mr. Anagnos containing her "dream," so that the likenesses and differences may be studied by those interested in the subject:
Here the similarity in the language of the story to that in the letter ceases.
Now Helen, in her letter of February, 1890 (quoted above), alludes to this story of Miss Canby's as a dream "WHICH I HAD A LONG TIME AGO WHEN I WAS A VERY LITTLE CHILD."
The person said her story was called "Frost Fairies."
I am perfectly sure I wrote the story myself.
Soon after its appearance in print I was pained to learn, through the Goodson Gazette, that a portion of the story (eight or nine passages) is either a reproduction or adaptation of Miss Margaret Canby's "Frost Fairies."
I hasten to assure you that Helen could not have received any idea of the story from any of her relations or friends here, none of whom can communicate with her readily enough to impress her with the details of a story of that character.
I first tried to ascertain what had suggested to Helen's mind the particular fancies which made her story seem like a reproduction of one written by Miss Margaret Canby.
The only person that we supposed might possibly have read the story to Helen was her friend, Mrs. Hopkins, whom she was visiting at the time in Brewster.
On Miss Sullivan's return to Brewster, she read to Helen the story of "Little Lord Fauntleroy," which she had purchased in Boston for the purpose.
In this case Helen Keller held almost intact in her mind, unmixed with other ideas, the words of a story which at the time it was read to her she did not fully understand.
This little story calls into life all the questions of language and the philosophy of style.
When she came to retell the story in a fuller form, the echo was still in her mind of the phrases she had written nine years before.
It seems worth while, however, to quote from some of her chance bits of writing, which are neither so informal as her letters nor so carefully composed as her story of her life.
The vicomte wished to begin his story and gave a subtle smile.
"Charming!" whispered the little princess, sticking the needle into her work as if to testify that the interest and fascination of the story prevented her from going on with it.
I was told a charming Moscow story today and must treat you to it.
And Prince Hippolyte began to tell his story in such Russian as a Frenchman would speak after spending about a year in Russia.
"You don't understand why I say this," he continued, "but it is the whole story of life.
The story told about him at Count Rostov's was true.
Bring us nice news of a victory by the Archduke Karl or Ferdinand (one archduke's as good as another, as you know) and even if it is only over a fire brigade of Bonaparte's, that will be another story and we'll fire off some cannon!
But what is best of all," he went on, his excitement subsiding under the delightful interest of his own story, "is that the sergeant in charge of the cannon which was to give the signal to fire the mines and blow up the bridge, this sergeant, seeing that the French troops were running onto the bridge, was about to fire, but Lannes stayed his hand.
Prince Andrew remembered the story of Suvorov giving his saber to Bagration in Italy, and the recollection was particularly pleasant at that moment.
At one end of the table, the old chamberlain was heard assuring an old baroness that he loved her passionately, at which she laughed; at the other could be heard the story of the misfortunes of some Mary Viktorovna or other.
But much as all the rest laughed, talked, and joked, much as they enjoyed their Rhine wine, saute, and ices, and however they avoided looking at the young couple, and heedless and unobservant as they seemed of them, one could feel by the occasional glances they gave that the story about Sergey Kuzmich, the laughter, and the food were all a pretense, and that the whole attention of that company was directed to-- Pierre and Helene.
"The step must be taken but I cannot, I cannot!" thought Pierre, and he again began speaking about indifferent matters, about Sergey Kuzmich, asking what the point of the story was as he had not heard it properly.
Mademoiselle Bourienne knew a story, heard from her aunt but finished in her own way, which she liked to repeat to herself.
Mademoiselle Bourienne was often touched to tears as in imagination she told this story to him, her seducer.
His hearers expected a story of how beside himself and all aflame with excitement, he had flown like a storm at the square, cut his way in, slashed right and left, how his saber had tasted flesh and he had fallen exhausted, and so on.
In the middle of his story, just as he was saying: "You cannot imagine what a strange frenzy one experiences during an attack," Prince Andrew, whom Boris was expecting, entered the room.
You know the story of the handkerchief?
But the story of the duel, confirmed by Pierre's rupture with his wife, was the talk of society.
Rostov noticed by their faces that all those gentlemen had already heard that story more than once and were tired of it.
Before Magnitski had finished his story someone else was anxious to relate something still funnier.
When Prince Andrew spoke (he could tell a story very well), Natasha listened to him with pride; when she spoke she noticed with fear and joy that he gazed attentively and scrutinizingly at her.
Incidents were related evidently confirming the opinion that everything was going from bad to worse, but whether telling a story or giving an opinion the speaker always stopped, or was stopped, at the point beyond which his criticism might touch the sovereign himself.
As soon as he reached Moscow, Prince Andrew had received from his father Natasha's note to Princess Mary breaking off her engagement (Mademoiselle Bourienne had purloined it from Princess Mary and given it to the old prince), and he heard from him the story of Natasha's elopement, with additions.
The boy, curly- headed like his mother and glowing with health, sat on his knee, and Prince Andrew began telling him the story of Bluebeard, but fell into a reverie without finishing the story.
She incoherently described the depths of the forest, her feelings, and a talk with a beekeeper she met, and constantly interrupted her story to say: No, I can't!
Speaking thickly and with a faraway look in his shining eyes, he told the whole story of his life: his marriage, Natasha's love for his best friend, her betrayal of him, and all his own simple relations with her.
A cornet, hearing the story, informed his commander.
There Platon Karataev was sitting covered up--head and all--with his greatcoat as if it were a vestment, telling the soldiers in his effective and pleasant though now feeble voice a story Pierre knew.
And Pierre's soul was dimly but joyfully filled not by the story itself but by its mysterious significance: by the rapturous joy that lit up Karataev's face as he told it, and the mystic significance of that joy.
So one might have thought that regarding this period of the campaign the historians, who attributed the actions of the mass to the will of one man, would have found it impossible to make the story of the retreat fit their theory.
Princess Mary, frowning in her effort to hold back her tears, sat beside Natasha, and heard for the first time the story of those last days of her brother's and Natasha's love.
Princess Mary understood his story and sympathized with him, but she now saw something else that absorbed all her attention.
I'm not sure who started that story, but it floated around here for my last two years of high school.
The house has but two small second story bedrooms.
The story she pointed out was headlined, Psychic Help Finding Lost Children?
To ask Brennan directly might lead to us so I made up a story we were checking old cases to see if someone released from prison might have returned to this type of crime.
I called Daniel Brennan the next day and related the story to him.
They'll follow up on the girl's story even though you and I know it's bogus.
The hunt reached a higher level of journalism when Betsy showed us a magazine cover story on the subject.
Now that Molly had confessed more knowledge than any of us suspected, I felt obligated to tell Martha the full story before she learned it from overheard conversation or from Molly directly.
"It's a long story," she replied.
But he told this one story I remember.
I think her story had enough of a ring of truth that I believed her.
"That is a good story" he said.
He said to a soldier who stood at the door, "Tell your story again."
Macbeth is the story of a ruthless wife, Lady Macbeth, who persuades her husband to murder the king and take his throne.
I have often held in my hand a little model of the Plymouth Rock which a kind gentleman gave me at Pilgrim Hall, and I have fingered its curves, the split in the centre and the embossed figures "1620," and turned over in my mind all that I knew about the wonderful story of the Pilgrims.
The story of Ruth, too--how Oriental it is!
More than once in the course of my story I have referred to my love of the country and out-of-door sports.
I had often read the story, but I had never felt the charm of Rip's slow, quaint, kind ways as I did in the play.
Little did the dusky children think that the puny slip with its two eyes only, which they stuck in the ground in the shadow of the house and daily watered, would root itself so, and outlive them, and house itself in the rear that shaded it, and grown man's garden and orchard, and tell their story faintly to the lone wanderer a half-century after they had grown up and died--blossoming as fair, and smelling as sweet, as in that first spring.
The story was very pretty and interesting, especially at the point where the rivals suddenly recognized one another; and the ladies looked agitated.
Get to the lowest story, in a central location away from hallways and windows.
The story related the successful return of a young boy kidnapped from his San Francisco home.
Maybe he's waiting to see if we buy her story or the tip that mentioned his facial hair.
Nice story, but that's about all it is.
You may believe the story that you like best.
I remembered the story of a conceited fellow, who, in fine clothes, was wont to lounge about the village once, giving advice to workmen.
She jumped on the story with renewed vigor.
They're acting out some bizarre kid's story for the cancer kids, Han said, ducking his head into the office.
The Roman story went on.