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“That was tough,” said Bob sympathetically. “What’d you do then?” “There’s got to be a way through,” growled Jerry. “Where does the water go? Must go somewhere; can’t stop here, that’s sure as rain.” The distant torrent's melancholy note.
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Conrad
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. And catch the dying gale that swells remote, “Yes, I just tumbled right in.” He got up in bed, eager to show how he fell. “But it was horrid afterward, because some fine ladies and gentlemen came, who ate and drank there on the wharf a long time; and then Nils the fisherman lent me his blouse, and they gave me some cream cakes”— “These canals were started by the Indians,” said Jerry, “and were made bigger and longer by the white settlers. When we get up to Holman’s you’ll see some real irrigation.”.
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