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Updated: May 14, 2025
The great pines, the green aisles leading away into the woods, the shadows under the thickets, the pine-pitch tang of the air, the loneliness of that lonely forest all these seemed familiar, sweet, beautiful, things mine alone, things seen and smelled and felt before, things ... Then suddenly I ran right upon my deer, lying motionless, dead I thought.
There was absolute silence save for the crackle of the flaming pine-pitch torches. "Ver' well," in a low voice. "I, me, Mignon, shall answer." Again she paused. A long way down the canyon she heard horses galloping on the hard road. "Monsieur Pete!" she screamed, at the top of her voice. The mob struggled forward, yelling.
Thoreau stuffed more fuel into the blazing firepot, and the glow spread cheerfully, and with the warmth that was filling the cabin there mingled the sweet scent of the pine-pitch and burning balsam. David rubbed his hands. He was rubbing them when Marie came into the room, plaiting the second of her two great ropes of shining black hair. He nodded.
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