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After walking for half an hour you come to a bit of high ground, where you have often stood before, and, resting your gun against a wall, you gaze at the view beyond. "Quocunque adspicias, nihil est nisi gramen et aer." Nothing particularly striking, perhaps, is visible to the eye, yet to my mind there is a charm about it which the pen is quite unable to describe.
However pleasant, though, the conversation might be, the smallest change in external circumstances, the least break in the perpetual 'Quocumque adspicias, nil est nisi pontus et aer,
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