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Updated: May 12, 2025
So they are wandering past us, the air-mothers, to weep the leaves into their graves; to weep the seeds into their seed-beds, and weep the soil into the plains; to get the rich earth ready for the winter, and then creep northward to the ice-world, and there die. Weary, and still more weary, slowly and more slowly still, they will journey on far northward, across fast-chilling seas.
If you don't mind we'll let it drop that is, between you and me, Miss Drake! I hope the war won't break off our " "Don't suggest it, please! I'd rather you wouldn't. We are friends, after all. I thought it was playing at war and I can't tell you how shocked I am." "Poor old Bonaparte!" was all he said in reply. She stooped and laid her hand on the fast-chilling coat of the dog.
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