Far to the right, where the main pile sloped out, his cart reared tongue upward, like a plow.
On May 3, 1988, Mr. [C] misblended about 35,000 pounds of coffee.
She eliminated those lonely treeless farmhouses with the sun beating on their shining gal-iron roofs.
I imagined her tall, horsy and thirty-something with a name like Sheena. There had been a time when I had regarded Sheenas as the backbone of England.
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