It was a bizarre sight, a miniature manor, replicated fully, walled in gray limestone. “I don’t know. ‘Something in that, missie. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. At any rate, here I am, and here I shall be, twenty thousand feet above all your poison-reeking cities, up where God’s wind comes fresh from heaven, very near indeed to the untrodden snows. Stanley changed his key. Thames Darrell III.
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