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Berselius had ordered the tents to be raised on the sunlit grass, for the edge of the forest, though shady, was infested by clouds of tiny black midges midges whose bite was as bad, almost, as the bite of a mosquito.
But it was a voyage that would continue not for a week or a fortnight, but for four years four marvelous, sunlit years, the glory of which would color all that followed them. A reader of Mark Twain's Mississippi book gets the impression that the author was a boy of about seventeen when he started to learn the river, and that he was painfully ignorant of the great task ahead.
But so sure as he was alone, a series of dissolving views began to float before his vivid imagination, and he saw Sir James Danby's boat managed by Bob Dimsted and himself, gliding rapidly along through river and along by sunlit shores, where, after catching wonderfully tinted fish, he and the boy landed to light a fire, cook their food, and partake of it in a delightful gipsy fashion.
"Here, quick, look out!" cried Mark at that instant, for, wincing from seeing the dressing of his father's wound, he had unscrewed one of the little side-lights and was looking over the calm sunlit sea, when he caught sight of a prau gliding along from the Petrel's bows, and it was evident that she was coming to attack simultaneously from the stern. "Hah! that's it, is it!" said the major.
In that sunlit room the bright green of the outside world quivering in pools of colour upon the pure space of the white walls spoke of life and beauty and the immortality of beauty.
The heat of midday still lurked here; the way was clear, for there was a sort of path between the trees, as if, in very ancient days, there had been a road. Right across this path, half lost in shadow, half sunlit, the lianas hung their ropes.
"A canoe!" breathed the girl, looking back over the sunlit lake. "Yes, a canoe, cast aside, forgotten, as sometimes men and women are forgotten when down and out." "Men and women who live in dreams," she added. "And with such dreams there must always be grief."
He had seen her dark eyes aglow; he had seen the sunlit sheen of her black hair rippling in the wind; he had seen the white pallor in her face, the slimness of her as she stood over him in horror he remembered even the clutch of her white hand at her throat. A moment before she had tried to kill him. And then he had looked up and had seen her like that!
It was all very foolish and no less foolish were the afternoons in the depths of Fontainebleau or the sunlit green thickets of Saint-Germain no less foolish any of those afternoons in the forest or the park to which a long drive by train, or tram, had carried us.
It was a group of tennis-players upon a sunlit lawn, one of those instantaneous pictures in which amateurs delight; but it was clear and the faces were very distinct. One of them I recognised at once as the subject of our conversation. He wore in the picture a light tennis suit, and his handsome head was bare; but I knew the face at once, and told her so. 'That, she said, 'is a picture of a Mr.
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