Ben shielded his face with his hatbrim as Dale came from behind the desk to talk to him.
A treaty was concluded between the race of elves and the race of men.
Your work is off-color, your liver is wrong— You know it – yet when he butts in, With a little sly jolly, somehow you brace up And scare up a feeblesome grin.
It was a small café, gimcracked with atmosphere, the usual red-checkered tablecloths, and candles dribbling down the sides of old wine bottles.
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