One afternoon, while descending the eastern slopes of the Carpathians, following the northern Bistrița River, we came upon a tiny village of three or four houses, where a wedding was being celebrated.
Rustu failed to collect a Whitehead corner, Shawcross saw his effort blocked and Crouch was on hand to bundle over the line from three yards out.
He had on no Cloaths, but a Seaman’s Wastcoat, a Pair of open-knee’d Linnen Drawers, and a blew Linnen Shirt; but nothing to direct me so much as to guess what Nation he was of […]
This man knows the void; he shows how urban emptiness can be an active, malevolent, urbicidal force.
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