He named that place, for it was near her dwelling, and on the road between Balerynie and Heriotside, which fords the Sker Burn.
an unmemorized performance
Soft on her lap her laureate son reclines.
My memory lane is splotched with recollections that have not dimmed or faded in the last seventy-five years. They stand out clear and sharp, but they are splotches just the same. They have no beginning, nor do they trail off to an ending. They are just there like ink splotches on a white wall.
memory lane
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