I say, this is a top-hole omelette, said Ronnie.
I say, this is a top-hole omelette,
As we rode I wondered if the wind should be called a vendavel from Gibraltar, or maybe a libeccio from Italy, or perhaps simply it would be better, ...
I know we are all flat out. That is the way it is. We are flat out, and it becomes a way of life.
The border of the great north-west province of Xinjiang, a region three times the size of France, lay at the mining town of Mangnai, fifty miles beyond where I was sleeping. This was an old, feared frontierland - High Tartary or Chinese Turkestan - one sixth of all China now, which barged up against Central Asia. But at Mangnai the road roughened to a stone trail, where trucks, even my bus, gave up.
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