The Story of a Life, Volume 1 |
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Page 63
The road , made of broken stone , wound at first around the sides of bare , dusty
mountains . We crossed bridges over ravines in which there was not a drop of
water . Exactly the same clouds , made of dry , gray cotton waste , hung all day
long ...
The road , made of broken stone , wound at first around the sides of bare , dusty
mountains . We crossed bridges over ravines in which there was not a drop of
water . Exactly the same clouds , made of dry , gray cotton waste , hung all day
long ...
Page 313
The road wound between high poplars . We had entered the foothills of the
Carpathians . The rain hung on them like untidy strings of oakum . Clear streams
of rain water ran along the stone sides of the road . The road glistened . Steam
rose ...
The road wound between high poplars . We had entered the foothills of the
Carpathians . The rain hung on them like untidy strings of oakum . Clear streams
of rain water ran along the stone sides of the road . The road glistened . Steam
rose ...
Page 359
He clapped me on the shoulder , hopped a little on one leg next to his horse ,
holding on to the pommel , then swung himself heavily into the saddle , and rode
off at a trot along the side of the road . We walked all day along little roads .
He clapped me on the shoulder , hopped a little on one leg next to his horse ,
holding on to the pommel , then swung himself heavily into the saddle , and rode
off at a trot along the side of the road . We walked all day along little roads .
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Contents
The Death of My Father | 3 |
My Grandfather Maxim Grigorievich | 10 |
Carp | 16 |
Copyright | |
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