tailieunhanh - The Invisible Man

The stranger came early in February, one wintry day, through a biting wind and a driving snow, the last snowfall of the year, over the down, walking as it seemed from Bramblehurst railway station, and carrying a little black portmanteau in his thickly gloved hand. He was wrapped up from head to foot, and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face but the shiny tip of his nose; the snow had piled itself against his shoulders and chest, and added a white crest to the burden he carried. He staggered into the Coarch and Horses, more dead than alive as it seemed,. | The Invisible Man Wells H. G. Published 1897 Categorie s Fiction Science Fiction Source Wikisource 1 About Wells Herbert George Wells better known as H. G. Wells was an English writer best known for such science fiction novels as The Time Machine The War of the Worlds The Invisible Man and The Island of Doctor Moreau. He was a prolific writer of both fiction and non-fiction and produced works in many different genres including contemporary novels history and social commentary. He was also an outspoken socialist. His later works become increasingly political and didactic and only his early science fiction novels are widely read today. Wells along with Hugo Gernsback and Jules Verne is sometimes referred to as The Father of Science Fiction . Source Wikipedia Also available on Feedbooks for Wells The War of the Worlds 1898 The Time Machine 1895 A Modern Utopia 1905 Tales of Space and Time 1900 The Island of Dr. Moreau 1896 The Food of the Gods and How It Came to Earth 1904 The Sleeper Awakes 1910 The Story of the Inexperienced Ghost 1902 The First Men in the Moon 1901 A Dream of Armageddon 1901 Copyright This work is available for countries where copyright is Life 50 or in the USA published before 1923 . Note This book is brought to you by Feedbooks http Strictly for personal use do not use this file for commercial purposes. 2 Chapter 1 The Strange Man s Arrival The stranger came early in February one wintry day through a biting wind and a driving snow the last snowfall of the year over the down walking as it seemed from Bramblehurst railway station and carrying a little black portmanteau in his thickly gloved hand. He was wrapped up from head to foot and the brim of his soft felt hat hid every inch of his face but the shiny tip of his nose the snow had piled itself against his shoulders and chest and added a white crest to the burden he carried. He staggered into the Coarch and Horses more dead than alive as it seemed and flung his portmanteau down.