"Рыболовный мир" - это журнал о современных видах ловли рыбы, прикормках, насадках, тестирование удилищ. Вы узнаете много интересного о рыбной ловле и обо всём, что с ней связано. Эксклюзивные статьи, невероятные истории из жизни рыбаков, обзоры различных событий, полезные советы, рыболовные секреты и многое - многое другое.

"Рыболовный мир" - это журнал о современных видах ловли рыбы, прикормках, насадках, тестирование удилищ. Вы узнаете много интересного о рыбной ловле и обо всём, что с ней связано. Эксклюзивные статьи, невероятные истории из жизни рыбаков, обзоры различных событий, полезные советы, рыболовные секреты и многое - многое другое.

Computer Bild - крупнейший европейский журнал о компьютерах. Вышел на рынок компьютерных изданий с уникальной концепцией и предназначен для людей, которые интересуются компьютерами, Интернетом, средствами телекоммуникаций, аудио-, видео- и фототехникой. Каждые две недели читателям предлагаются новости индустрии, тесты оборудования и программ, обучающие курсы и практические советы. Издание интересно как новичкам, так и опытным пользователям.

It was 2 p.m. on the afternoon of May 7, 1915. The Lusitania had been struck by two torpedoes in succession and was sinking rapidly, while the boats were being launched with all possible speed. The women and children were being lined up awaiting their turn. Some still clung desperately to husbands and fathers; others clutched their children closely to their breasts. One girl stood alone, slightly apart from the rest. She was quite young, not more than eighteen. She did not seem afraid, and her grave, steadfast eyes looked straight ahead…

Mrs. Thomas Beresford shifted her position on the divan and looked gloomily out of the window of the flat. The prospect was not an extended one, consisting solely of a small block of flats on the other side of the road. Mrs. Beresford sighed and then yawned.

"I wish," she said, "something would happen." Her husband looked up reprovingly. "Be careful, Tuppence, this craving for vulgar sensation alarms me." Tuppence sighed and closed her eyes dreamily…

Mr. and Mrs. Beresford were sitting at the breakfast table. They were an ordinary couple. Hundreds of elderly couples just like them were having breakfast all over England at that particular moment. It was an ordinary sort of day too, the kind of day that you get five days out of seven. It looked as though it might rain but wasn't quite sure of it.

Mr. Beresford had once had red hair. There were traces of the red still, but most of it had gone that sandy-cum-grey colour that redheaded people so often arrive at in middle life…

Mrs Van Rydock moved a little back from the mirror and sighed. 'Well, that'll have to do,' she murmured. 'Think it's all right, Jane?' Miss Marple eyed the Lanvanelli creation appraisingly. 'It seems to me a very beautiful gown,' she said. 'The gown's all right,' said Mrs Van Rydock and sighed. 'Take if off, Stephanie,' she said. The elderly maid with the grey hair and the small pinched mouth eased the gown carefully up over Mrs Van Rydock's upstretched arms…

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later developments.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service…

Mrs. Bantry was dreaming. Her sweet peas had just taken a First at the flower show. The vicar, dressed in cassock and surplice, was giving out the prizes in church. His wife wandered past, dressed in a bathing suit, but, as is the blessed habit of dreams, this fact did not arouse the disapproval of the parish in the way it would assuredly have done in real life. Mrs. Bantry was enjoying her dream a good deal.

She usually did enjoy those early-morning dreams that were terminated by the arrival of early-morning tea. Somewhere in her inner consciousness was an awareness of the usual early-morning noises of the household…

Gwenda Reed stood, shivering a little, on the quay-side. The docks and the custom sheds and all of England that she could see, were gently waving up and down. And it was in that moment that she made her decision-the decision that was to lead to such very momentous events. She wouldn’t go by the boat train to London as she had planned.

After all, why should she? No one was waiting for her, nobody expected her. She had only just got off that heaving creaking boat (it had been an exceptionally rough three days through the Bay and up to Plymouth) and the last thing she wanted was to get into a heaving swaying train…