But one guy was still yelping: a big-bellied biker, with a long, black beard that hung halfway down his bloated gut.
Good Heaven! What ſorrows gloom'd that parting day, / That called them from their native walks away; […]
Or evening, in her starry mantle bright, Precedes the slow majestic train of night; In that still hour the mind excursive roves, A heavenly voice the listening spirit moves.
We made reweighings and remeasurings of deliveries made by peddlers […]
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