[ɑː] or [ɑr]
(noun.) a unit of surface area equal to 100 square meters.
Inputed by Bobbie--From WordNet
(-) The present indicative plural of the substantive verb to be; but etymologically a different word from be, or was. Am, art, are, and is, all come from the root as.
(n.) The unit of superficial measure, being a square of which each side is ten meters in length; 100 square meters, or about 119.6 square yards.
n. the unit of the French land measure containing 100 sq. metres = 119.6 English sq. yards.
- They are purging more than the epsom salts in this epoch. Hemingway, Ernest. For Whom The Bell Tolls.
- I have something beyond this, but I will call it a defect, not an endowment, if it leads me to misery, while ye are happy. Mary Shelley. The Last Man.
- Eglow, Eglonitz--here we are, Egria. Arthur Conan Doyle. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes.
- Are the Indians then gypsies? Hemingway, Ernest. For Whom The Bell Tolls.
- Sixteen shillings sterling, we are told by Mr Byron, was the price of a good horse in the capital of Chili. Adam Smith. An Inquiry into the Nature and Causes of the Wealth of Nations.
- There are many others that have to be considered with it. H. G. Wells. The Outline of History_Being a Plain History of Life and Mankind.
- They are a smaller horde than the Tharks but much more ferocious. Edgar Rice Burroughs. A Princess of Mars.
- But are we men's equals, or are we not? Charlotte Bronte. Shirley.
- I suppose you are the only independent prince in the ?gean? Fergus Hume. The Island of Fantasy.
- And who are the devoted band, and where will he procure them? Plato. The Republic.
- They are very much better, John. Rupert S. Holland. Historic Inventions.
- Which means, I suppose, that you are not quite clear about your case? Arthur Conan Doyle. The Return of Sherlock Holmes.
- Women are certainly quicker in some things than men. Charlotte Bronte. Villette.
- But men of your character are mostly so independent. Thomas Hardy. The Return of the Native.
- I can't very well do it myself; because my back's so bad, and my legs are so queer. Charles Dickens. Our Mutual Friend.
Typed by Harrison