The morning was raw, yet he wore only summer khaki trousers, a light Army field jacket and, of all things, tennis shoes. He was shivering.
At length, Vassili got up and covered over the britchka, the coachman wrapped himself up in his cloak and lifted his cap to make the sign of the cross at each successive thunderclap, and the horses pricked up their ears and snorted.
She is mindless, brainless, shallowhearted.
That hallowed American folk hero, the lean cowboy with six-gun at hip, swinging smoothly into the saddle—somehow he never had to go to school to learn that stuff.
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