” He woke the glassy water to swirling activity again, and made the deep-blue shapes below writhe and shiver. Then he sat down again in a chair and said that people who wrote novels ought to be strung up. “Good God!” he exclaimed. Do you remember when we went right away, Nigel, and forgot everything? We went down the river past Veraz, and the larks were singing all over those deep brown fields, and the river further on wound its way like a coil of silver across the rich meadowland, and along the hillside vineyards.
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