
A memory without blot or contamination must be an exquisite treasure — an inexhaustible source of pure refreshment: is it not?
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A Christmas frost had come at midsummer; a white December storm had whirled over June; ice glazed the ripe apples, drifts crushed the blowing roses; on hayfield and cornfield lay a frozen shroud: lanes which last night blushed full of flowers, to-day were pathless with untrodden snow; and the woods, which twelve hours since waved leafy and flagrant as groves between the tropics, now spread, waste, wild, and white as pine-forests in wintry Norway.
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1 commentaire:
Hello, I like this blog.
Sorry not write more, but my English is not good.
A hug from Portugal
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