When I came to the saw-mill at Brække, the sky was overcast, it was already growing dark, only above the level of the north-western horizon there appeared a streak of light, which threw a subdued glimmer on the tranquil surface of the mill-pond.
The Herb Pantagruelion hath a little Root somewhat hard and ruff, roundish, terminating in an obtuse and very blunt Point, and having some of its Veins, Strings or Filaments coloured with some spots of white, […]
Stop telling clankers!
I've never met his mother, so I'm grasping at straws for an appropriate gift for her.
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