Sample Audiobook Narration - Four English Lit Classics
Description
Read MoreVocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
audiobook narration sample by Gordon ought. Four samples From the house of the seven Gables by Nathaniel Hawthorne in the growth of the town. However, after some 30 or 40 years, the site covered by this rude Hubble had become exceedingly desirable, and the eyes of a prominent and powerful personage who asserted plausible claims to the proprietorship of this, and a large adjacent tract of land on the strength of a grant from the Legislature, Colonel pinch in the climate, as we gather from whatever traits of him are preserved, was characterized by an iron energy of purpose. Matthew Maule, on the other hand, though an obscure man was stubborn in the defense of what he considered his right, and for several years he succeeded in protecting the acre or two of earth which, with his own toil, he had, you know, out of the primeval forest to be his garden ground in homestead. No written record of this dispute is known to be in existence. Our acquaintance with the whole subject is derived chiefly from tradition. It would be bold, therefore, and possibly unjust to venture a decisive opinion as to its merits. Although it appears to have been at least a matter of doubt whether colonel pensions claims were not unduly stretched in order to make it cover the small meats and bounds of Matthew Maule. What greatly strengthened such a suspicion is the fact that this controversy between two ill matched antagonists had a period moreover lauded, as we may, when personal influence had far more weight than now remained for years, undecided, and came to a close only with the death of the party occupying the disputed soil. The mode of his death to affects the mind differently in our day from what it did a century and a half ago, it was a death that, blasted with strange horror the humble name, the dweller in the cottage, and made it seem almost a religious act to drive the plow over the little area of his habitation, and obliterate his place in memory from among men. Old Matthew Maule and word was executed for the crime of witchcraft from wuthering Heights by Emily bronte Walk in! The walk in was uttered with closed teeth and express the sentiment. Go to the Deuce. Even the gate over which he lent manifested no sympathizing movement to the words, and I think that circumstance determined me to accept the invitation. I felt interested in a man who seemed more exaggeratedly reserved than myself when he saw my horses breast fair, really pushing the barrier, he did pull out his hand to unchain it, and then sullenly preceded me up this causeway, calling as we entered the court, joseph, take mr Lockwood's horse and bring up some wine. Here we have the whole establishment of domestics, I suppose, was the reflection suggested by his compound order. No wonder the grass grows up between the flags and cattle are the only hedge cutters. Joseph was an elderly. Nay, an old man. Very old, perhaps, though hail and sinewy, Lord help us! He's a little quid in an undertone of peevish displeasure while relieving me of my horse, looking meantime, in my face so sourly that I charitably conjectured he must have need of divine aid to digest his dinner, and his pious ejaculation had no reference to my unexpected advent. Wuthering Heights is the name of Mr Heathcliff swelling, wondering, being a significant provincial adjective, descriptive of the atmospheric tumult to which its station is exposed in stormy weather. Pure bracing ventilation. They must have up there at all times, indeed, one may guess the power of the north wind blowing over the edge, by the excessive slant of a few stunted furs at the end of the house, and buy a range of gaunt thorns all stretching their limbs one way as of craving alms of the sun happily. The architect had foresight to build it strong. The narrow windows are deeply set in the wall, and the corners defended with large jutting stones from the great Gatsby by F Scott Fitzgerald. The lawn started at the beach and ran toward the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sun dials and brick walks and burning gardens. Finally, when it reached the house, drifting up the side and bright vines, as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of french windows glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm, windy afternoon and tom Buchanan and riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch. He had changed since his New Haven years Now. He was a sturdy, straw haired man of 30, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner to shining, arrogant eyes, had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body. He seemed to fill those glistening boots until you strain the top placing. You could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage, a cruel body, his speaking voice, a gruff, husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even towards people he liked, and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts. Now, I don't think that my opinion on these matters is final, He seemed to say, just because I'm stronger and more of a man than you are. We were in the same senior society. And while we were never intimate, I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own. We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch. I've got a nice place here, he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly, turning me around by one arm. He moved abroad, flat hand along the front Visa, including in its sweep, a sunken, italian garden, a half acre of deep pungent roses, and a snub nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore. It belonged to Domain, the oil man. He turned me around again politely and abruptly. We'll go inside from the tell tale heart by Edgar Allan Poe! They sat, and while I answered cheerily they chatted of familiar things. But your long! I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My headache, and I fancied a ringing in my ears. But still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct. I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling, but it continued and gained definitiveness, until at length I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale, but I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased, and what could I do? It was a low doll! Quick sound, much, such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton! I gasped for breath. Yet the officers heard it not. I talked more quickly more vehemently, but the noise steadily increased. I rose and argued about trifles and a high key, and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would that help it? Gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observations of the men. But the noise steadily increased. Oh, God! What could I do? I foamed! I raved. I swore. I swung the chair upon which I had sat and graded it up on the boards. But the noise arose overall and continually increased. She grew louder, louder, louder and still. The men chatted pleasantly and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Oh, mighty! God, no, no! They heard. They suspected they knew they were making a mockery of my horror. This! I thought in this, I think, but anything better than this agony. Anything was more tolerable than this derision. I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer. I felt that I must scream or die, and now again hark louder, louder, louder, louder villains! I shrieked, dissemble. No more. I admit the deed tear up the planks! Here here is the beating of his hideous heart.