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The pub is empty except for a couple - man and wife, judging by her wedding ring - sitting in silence by the fire. Her back is to me; the corners of his mouth turn down. I'm pretty sure they're the ones I'm looking for.

When an unidentified "monster" threatens international shipping, French oceanographer Pierre Aronnax and his unflappable assistant Conseil join an expedition organized by the US Navy to hunt down and destroy the menace. After months of fruitless searching, they finally grapple with their quarry, but Aronnax, Conseil, and the brash Canadian harpooner Ned Land are thrown overboard in the attack, only to find that the "monster" is actually a futuristic submarine, the Nautilus, commanded by a shadowy, mystical, preternaturally imposing man who calls himself Captain Nemo.

Brady was born in Allegheny, Pennsylvania, and graduated from the U.S. Naval Academy in 1883. In 1889, he was ordained a deacon in the Episcopal church, and was ordained a priest in 1890. His first wife was Clarissa Guthrie, who died in 1890. YARNS OF THE FORECASTLE: Most of us have passed through a period of life during which we have ardently longed to be, if not actually a rover, a buccaneer, or a pirate, at least and really a sailor!

The Uncommercial Traveller is a collection of literary sketches and reminiscences written by Charles Dickens, published in 1860-1861. In 1859 Dickens founded a new journal called All the Year Round, and the "Uncommercial Traveller" articles would be among his main contributions. He seems to have chosen the title and persona of the Uncommercial Traveller as a result of a speech he gave on 22 December 1859 to the Commercial Travellers' School London in his role as honorary chairman and treasurer.

'I think that love is best left to the young,' Donna said. 'I expect that one day it will be viewed by psychiatrists as a mental health problem rather than anything wonderful or spiritual.

The Robinsons arrived late in the evening; he in black tie and she in a long cocktail dress of sheer red silk.

There are four of them - George, Harris, the writer himself and that dog, Montmorency - all participants in a boating expedition on the Thames. The difficulties and vicissitudes heaped upon these innocents develop to epic proportions as they experience the hazards of the great English waterway. Their problems are in no way diminished by the outrageous behaviour of Montmorency, who lays waste several riverside communities in the course of their journey.

On a fine day, the dale could hold its own. White clouds scudded across a pale blue sky, casting shape-shifting shadows over the land, and just before dusk a translucent light bathed the fells in a fairy glow.

Penny's survey of Luscombe Manor, a honey-toned, seventeenth-century house with Victorian additions, was taking much longer than she'd anticipated. The owner, Percy Davington, didn't seem to mind, however, and, going into the warm kitchen to eat her packed lunches, she often found him waiting for her with a glass of good dry sherry.

All through August Abigail looked out for the ship, counting the masts on each vessel and reading their names before they reached the harbour.

Joel had applied for the Rawthorpe Award with very low expectations and so he was extremely surprised to receive a letter from the Foundation telling him that he was the recipient of one of the ten writers' bursaries on offer that year.

Like most children I dreamed that I could fly and that I could take giant bounding leaps across the landscape. On summer mornings I would try this out on my way to school, hoping to find myself far above the tarmacked lane, looking down on the fields and my friends below.

The drop-in group met every Wednesday morning at the St Francis Centre. Sometimes there were activities painting a picture or learning something new on the computer but mostly it was a social event.

Most people seem to consider Nina Monkman to be a self-assured, confident young woman, but I have known her long enough to realise that this is not quite the truth.

It was nearly midday when, bleary-eyed, Paula struggled up the last few metres of the slope. Lawrence's leaving party had drifted into the early hours, even though it was the middle of the working week, and in the morning, when he kissed her goodbye and got into the taxi, she had felt the first surge of panic.

This is the first collection of strange stories by contemporary writer Mark Samuels. The themes that thread through these nine accomplished stories are drawn from the great tradition of the twentieth-century weird tale, and they are suffused with a distinctly cosmopolitan European feel. Mark Samuels writes about the fundamental fears of modern life, especially the effects of isolation and the dislocation that city dwellers can experience in their inhospitable, man-made environment.

The Robinsons arrived late in the evening; he in black tie and she in a long cocktail dress of sheer red silk. Neither Rachel nor Clive could remember inviting them, but they hoped the couple might enliven what was threatening to become a rather dull event.

My friends raved about the view from my study. Tristram said, 'How lucky you are! I could look at it forever.' He often returned to the window to watch the changes that mark the progress of each day: the gradual greening of the grass, light moving over the fields, a larger flock of crows.

It's unlikely you'll read this as it's hidden on my computer, saved under 'lists'. If it comes to light it will hurt you, Lars, and I'm sorry for that.

Lucy was an awkward child, unlike Oliver and Sam who, when it was dry, played outside most of the time. She spent a great deal of the summer holiday visiting the library, reading in her room and researching online.