Some fine day we may have the country raised, and the gendarmes down upon us from Strasburg, and all owing to your pretty doll, with her cunning ways of coming over you.
Yet the employment seemed a pleasant one; her cheek was flushed with a clear, rich crimson—her face / Was like any fair lake that the morning is on, / When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun. / And if, ever and anon, the brow was clouded by a shade of pensiveness, it was quickly dispelled by the consciousness of present happiness.
Was like any fair lake that the morning is on, / When it breaks into dimples, and laughs in the sun.
The computer won't let me delete that file; could you sort it out?
The horse galloped past the finishing line.
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