So I took seat and ate somewhat of my vivers, my horse also feeding upon his fodder, and we nighted in that spot and next morning I set out[.]
She struck a match and relighted the candle and everyone looked at each other by its winky, blinky light.
Up on the ridges above the valley, way above the fog line at between 400 and 700m (1300 and 2300ft), are some great old Zinfandel vineyards, their origins dating back to the sites that were first planted by Italian immigrants back in the closing decade of the 19th century.
The sound of the waits, rude as may be their minstrelsy, breaks upon the mild watches of a winter night with the effect of perfect harmony.
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