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Updated: June 24, 2025
And when all is said and done, his brave death is somethin' t' give thanks for, as ye'll admit fast enough when ye've heard. Well, thirty-one, he was, and about me own height. But not me weight. No, he was a lighter-weighing man. He had sandyish hair, this gentleman, and a smooth face. His eyes were gray-and-blue.
Formerly she sat in her pale gray-and-blue rooms dressed faultlessly, "splendidly null," and you sought in vain for a topic which could warm her into interest or thaw out a sign of life from her.
She thought, as she lay there, choking, of the great, gracious gray-and-blue room at home, many-windowed, sweet-smelling, quiet. Quiet! He thought, as he lay there, choking, of the gracious gray-blue room at home, many-windowed, sweet-smelling, quiet. Quiet! Then, as he had said that night in September: "Sleeping, mother?" "N-no. Not yet. Just dozing off." "It's the strange beds, I guess.
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