It was as if the sun were an artist, who, not satisfied with his efforts, changed and changed again the colors on his canvas, for each moment the tints and hues would fade or grow more intense as the shadows grew deeper, and the scene would seem quite different.,
“Do you know what you deserve?” asked Father. Not a sound in reply. “You shall escape this time,” continued Father. “I think you will remember your Mother’s tears now better than a whipping; but another time—do you hear?”,
The wind whistled in his ears and he was choked by the rapid ascent, yet the sensation was not entirely unpleasant. It was like riding in the fastest elevator he’d ever been in—at triple the speed..
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