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She leaves me almost without comparisons. “I first saw you crossing the river Arno, after a spring rain had spoiled the day for everyone except the ducks. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. You're alone, too, child. Pig? By George, every one of them looks like the other; and yet each one attacks the source of supply with a squeal and an oof that's entirely different from his brothers' and sisters'. Instead of English villas and cottages there were chalets and Italian-built houses shining white; there were lakes of emerald and sapphire and clustering castles, and such sweeps of hill and mountain, such shining uplands of snow, as she had never seen before. I’ve—dreads. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 25-09-2024 23:37:22