It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. Brown engaged in the usual browbeating and complaining he reserved for sections who came in late and soloists who left tempo behind like the leftovers of a Sunday picnic. It was a copy of the pencil sketch taken of him nine years ago by Winifred, and awakened a thousand tender recollections. I will dedicate my books to you.
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This video was uploaded to probiv.club on 05-06-2024 15:14:34
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