The French Lieutenant's Woman
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Perhaps the most beloved of John Fowles's internationally bestselling works, The French Lieutenant's Woman is a feat of seductive storytelling that effectively invents anew the Victorian novel. "Filled with enchanting mysteries and magically erotic possibilities" (New York Times), the novel inspired the hugely successful 1981 film starring Meryl Streep and Jeremy Irons and is today universally regarded as a modern classic.
dressed. “Well?” “No answer, Mr. Charles.” Charles could not quite control his face. He turned away. “And the carriage?” “Ready and waitin’, sir.” “Very well. I shall be down shortly.” Sam withdrew. The door had no sooner closed when Charles raised his hands to his head, then threw them apart, as if to an audience, an actor accepting applause, a smile of gratitude on his lips. For he had, upon his ninety-ninth re-reading of his letter that previous night, added a second postscript. It
frigid and authoritarian a person; but there remained about his features an unpleasant aura of self-confidence—or if not quite confidence in self, at least a confidence in his judgment of others, of how much he could get out of them, expect from them, tax them. A stare of a minute or so’s duration, of this kind, might have been explicable. Train journeys are boring; it is amusing to spy on strangers; and so on. But this stare, which became positively cannibalistic in its intensity, lasted far
... and died very largely of it in 1856. Charles was thus his only heir; heir not only to his father’s diminished fortune—the baccarat had in the end had its revenge on the railway boom—but eventually to his uncle’s very considerable one. It was true that in 1867 the uncle showed, in spite of a comprehensive reversion to the claret, no sign of dying. Charles liked him, and his uncle liked Charles. But this was by no means always apparent in their relationship. Though he conceded enough to sport
lamp, went to a bookshelf at the back of the narrow room. In a moment he returned and handed a book to Charles. It was The Origin of Species. He looked up at the doctor’s severe eyes. “I did not mean to imply—“ “Have you read it?” “Yes.” “Then you should know better than to talk of a great man as ‘this fellow.’” “From what you said—“ “This book is about the living, Smithson. Not the dead.” The doctor rather crossly turned to replace the lamp on its table. Charles stood. “You are quite
arable land of Wessex and shake his fist at his Creator?” He might as reasonably have inquired why the Atreids should have shaken their bronze fists skywards at Mycenae. This is not the place to penetrate far into the shadows beside Egdon Heath. What is definitely known is that in 1867 Hardy, then twenty-seven years old, returned to Dorset from his architectural studies in London and fell profoundly in love with his sixteen-year-old cousin Tryphena. They became engaged. Five years later, and