There is my Quaker Aunt, A Paper-Flower, — with a formal border / No breeze could e'er disorder, — Pouting at that old beau—the Winter Cherry, / A pucker'd berry; / And Box, like a tough-liv'd annuitant
The great mass of cloud filling the head of the gulf had long red smears amongst its convoluted folds of grey and black, as of a floating mantle stained with blood.
The sand shelved gently here. Only at waist-level did the sudden dips occur, and then an upward-sloping hill would lead to a sand-bar, to a new shore islanded in the sea.
While smoothing on aromatherapeutic oils, she revealed that a guest had once flashed a helicopterful of arrivals.
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