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Updated: June 2, 2025
The mother is a Baroness. Do you really believe in a Baroness living up four flights of stairs? Brrr! Why, you are a relic of the golden age! We see the old mother here, in this avenue, every day; why, her face, her appearance, tell everything. What, have you not known her for what she is by the way she holds her bag?"
I had to wait. It rained. Rain, cold, mud ... brrr! The Uralsky line is a good one.... That is due to the abundance of business-like people here, factories, mines, and so on, for whom time is precious. Waking yesterday morning and looking out of the carriage window I felt an aversion for nature: the earth was white, trees covered with hoar-frost, and a regular blizzard pursuing the train.
He motioned her over and pointed. "The Early People they've been waiting for the sun." "So have I," Francesca said. She was wearing tan jeans and a long gray sweatshirt. "Brrr." "Somebody keeps making sculptures here," Oliver said. "I started noticing them this week." "Do you come here often?" she asked. "Yeah." "I try to walk here on Sunday mornings.
His eyes were very handsome when he smiled. Boy? she thought. He was scarce more than that now. "Pirates' gold! What a lure it has been, is, and will be! Blood money, brrr! I can see no pleasure in touching it. And the poor, pathetic trinkets, which once adorned some fair neck! It takes a man's mind to pass over that side of the picture, and see only the fighting. But humanity has gone on.
There's not a line that's not a personal insult to grammar! No stops nor commas and the spelling . . . brrr! 'Earth' has an a in it!! And the writing! It's desperate!
During the night we heard the noise of a frog, "brrr, brrr;" probably a new species, for we had never heard that croak before. It seemed, however, to frighten Brown, who, like all blackfellows, is very timid after night-fall. Yesterday we met with a new leguminous shrub. It belongs to the section Cassia, and has a long pinnate leaf, the leaflets an inch long, and half an inch broad.
"Brrr! that fellow got on my nerves," he said; and we made no further allusion to the matter. But as the train, moving slowly, passed a gap which brought us again in sight of the town, we saw a tongue of flame stream into the sky. By WILBUR DANIEL STEELE "Stories of New York life preferable." Well, then, here is a story of New York.
And a Frenchman will eat anything, whatever you give him frogs and rats and black beetles. . . brrr! You don't like that ham, for instance, because it is Russian, but if one were to give you a bit of baked glass and tell you it was French, you would eat it and smack your lips. . . . To your thinking everything Russian is nasty." "I don't say that."
Let's hear the voices of the past once more human voices the voices of the age that was!" she cried, excited as a child. "All right, my darling," he made answer. "But not here. This is no place for melody, down in this dark and gloomy crypt, surrounded by the relics of the dead. We've been buried alive down here altogether too long as it is. Brrr! The chill's beginning to get into my very bones!
His school overcoat, his cap, his snowboots, and the hair on his temples were all white with frost, and his whole figure from head to foot diffused such a pleasant, fresh smell of the snow that the very sight of him made one want to shiver and say "brrr!" His mother and aunt ran to kiss and hug him.
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