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Updated: May 13, 2025
His dark skin had been deepened by windburn, his well- set, well-shaped head bore a countenance both eager and intelligent, a countenance that fairly glowed with confidence and good humor. Oddly enough, he sang as he sat upon his pack. High up on this hillside, amid blasphemous complaints, he hummed a gay little song: "Chante, rossignol, chante! Toi qui a le coeur gai!
I may leave at any moment must leave when my orders come, and I expect them every day, and before I go I must tell you this." Her downcast eyes could still see him blush and then pale a little under the sunburn and windburn of his face, as he went on speaking.
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