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He that sees in his own house, at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying. Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was cleaning for me. 'Does the Heaven-born want this ball? said Imam Din deferentially.
Nothing matters much to me only I wished Tsin-ling wouldn't put bran into the Black Smoke. "Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying." Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson. The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, and dinted.
When I woke I saw Mulvaney, the night-dew gemming his moustache, leaning on his rifle at picket, lonely as Prometheus on his rock, with I know not what vultures tearing his liver. Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and falling and crying. Munichandra, translated by Professor Peterson.
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