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Updated: May 12, 2025
She stepped from the tent and filled her lungs with great drafts of the spruce-laden night-breeze that wafted gently out of the mysterious dark, and rippled the surface of the river until little waves slapped softly against the shore in tiny whisperings of the unknown whisperings that called, and were understood by the new awakened self within her.
He breathed deeply of the warm spruce-laden breeze, slapped lazily at mosquitoes, and gazed at the setting sun between half-closed lids. Pierre Lapierre was happy. "Things are coming my way," he muttered. "With a year's stock in that warehouse and LeFroy to handle it I guess the Indians won't pick up many bargains my people! damn them! How I hate them.
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