This is my friend, Mr. Thames, you needn't tidy yourself, as you've hurt your arm. I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses. I am far too much the gentleman. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. There were always parrots and parrakeets screaming in the fruit groves. She read beautifully because the fixed form of the poem signified nothing. The wheel and the navigating instruments were sternward, under a spread of heavy canvas, a protection against rain and sun.
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