I shipped with them and becoming friends, we set forth on our venture, in health and safety; and sailed with a fair wind, till we came to a city called Madínat-al-Sín; […]
I stamped my feet and buried my hands in the heavy overcoat I wore. It was even colder by the River Spree, on the pedestrian path underneath the Moltke Bridge. There were no Fussgängers down here tonight. No “footgoers.” Not officially.
What of the thin and rotten ice he had felt under his feet all day, it seemed that he sensed disaster close at hand, out there ahead on the ice where his master was trying to drive him.
You saw it was toom. The lamp had gone out itself, or else — what's that?
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