I have a hundred of them—mixed blood—on my island, and they are always rooking me. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards. Ruth Enschede, Hartford, Conn.
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