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Welcome to Perfect, Indiana, where the heartbroken go to find hope again...Cory Marcel built a successful military career over eight grueling years. But after her commanding officer brutally assaulted her, she lost everything. Shattered, Cory reluctantly agrees to work at a furniture store in the picturesque town of Perfect...but she wonders if she can ever escape the demons haunting her. Ted Lovejoy may have cofounded Langford & Lovejoy Heritage Furniture, but these days, everyone makes decisions without him. He's ready to walk away from his beloved business...until he sees Cory. Now he finds himself determined to help the fragile brunette rebuild her life. Every time Ted gets too close to Cory's heart, she pushes him away. But this kind, soft-spoken man could hold the key to healing her past and to creating a loving future for both of them - if only Cory can learn to trust once more.
A wholesome fictional story to intrigue, inspire, and enlighten readers of all ages. Through its graphic imagery and brilliant storyline, "A Bridge Apart" sheds light on important life lessons that must be learned and re-learned in a very material world. Adopt and commit to memory what you learn from this story and you will guarantee your heart and mind will be ever vigilant and focused on what is truly important in life. "A Bridge Apart" is the story of a poor traveling salesman who struggles daily to make ends meet by selling the furniture he lovingly creates. Poor in spirit, he survives in a life of monotony lacking the coin and the confidence to make anything better of himself until a tragic accident that nearly ends his life changes everything . . .
No! No! she was not going to gush!-Not even though there was nothing in the room at this moment to stand up afterward before her as dumb witness to a moment's possible weakness. Less than nothing in fact: space might have spoken and recalled that moment . . . infinite nothingness might at some future time have brought back the memory of it . . . but these dumb, impassive objects! . . . the fountain pen between her fingers! The dull, uninteresting hotel furniture covered in red velvet-an uninviting red that repelled dreaminess and peace! The ormolu clock which had ceased long ago to mark the passage of time, wearied-as it no doubt was, poor thing-by the monotonous burden of a bronze Psyche gazing on her shiny brown charms, in an utterly blank and unreflective bronze mirror, while obviously bemoaning the fracture of one of her smooth bronze thighs! Indeed Louisa might well have given way to that overmastering feeling of excitement before all these things. They would neither see nor hear. They would never deride, for they could never remember. But a wood fire crackled on the small hearth . . . and . . . and those citron-coloured carnations were favourite flowers of his . . . and his picture did stand on the top of that ugly little Louis Philippe bureau . . . No! No! it would never do to gush, for these things would see . . . and, though they might not remember, they would remind. And Louisa counted herself one of the strong ones of this earth. Just think of her name. Have you ever known a Louisa who gushed? who called herself the happiest woman on earth? who thought of a man-just an ordinary man, mind you-as the best, the handsomest, the truest, the most perfect hero of romance that ever threw a radiance over the entire prosy world of the twentieth century? Louisas, believe me, do no such things. The Mays and the Floras, the Lady Barbaras and Lady Edithas, look beatific and charming when, clasping their lily-white hands together and raising violet eyes to the patterned ceiling paper above them, they exclaim: "Oh, my hero and my king!" But Louisas would only look ridiculous if they behaved like that . . . Louisa Harris, too! . . . Louisa, the eldest of three sisters, the daughter of a wealthy English gentleman with a fine estate in Kent, an assured position, no troubles, no cares, nothing in her life to make it sad, or sordid or interesting . . . Louisa Harris and romance! . . . Why, she was not even pretty. She had neither violet eyes nor hair of ruddy gold. The latter was brown and the former were gray. . . . How could romance come in the way of gray eyes, and of a girl named Louisa? Can you conceive, for instance, one of those adorable detrimentals of low degree and empty pocket who have a way of arousing love in the hearts of the beautiful daughters of irascible millionaires, can you conceive such an interesting personage, I say, falling in love with Louisa Harris? I confess that I cannot. To begin with, dear, kind Squire Harris was not altogether a millionaire, and not at all irascible, and penniless owners of romantic personalities were not on his visiting list.
"In the following pages the Author has placed before the reader an account of the changes in the design of Decorative Furniture and Woodwork, from the earliest period of which we have any reliable or certain record until the present time. A careful selection of illustrations has been made, and the representations of the different interiors will convey an idea of the character and disposition of the furniture of the periods to which they refer." Contains chapters on Roman furniture, the Renaissance Period and its variations throughout Europe, Asian furniture, and many more. Originally released in 1892.
Love's response to God's ultimate sacrifice ought to be myself. This book gives the happy secret of the life on fire for God.
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