In mail their horses clad, yet fleet and strong.
All Emily could hear were blurpy noises and a shrill whistle. “Are you there Matthew? Hello, hello... Matthew?... What happened?” “Don't worry Mom. I just passed through a giant rock cut. I'm O.K., the phone's O.K. […]
It may seem strange that a man who wrote with so much perspicuity, vivacity, and grace, should have been, whenever he took a part in conversation, an empty, noisy, blundering rattle.
The woman is a brazen, hard-looking wench, a female pedlar, who hawks needles, thread, cheap looking-glasses, pious pictures, almanacs, hair-pins, ballads, of the most humble pattern, through the country.
アカウントを持っていませんか? 新規登録
アカウントを持っていますか? ログイン
DiQt(ディクト)
無料
★★★★★★★★★★