Pennsylvania Dutch. Mr. In one of the cabins a man sat on the edge of his narrow bunk. “Who can tell?” she said. “Can I bring you anything, sir—a whisky and soda, or a liqueur? You’ll excuse me, sir, but you haven’t touched your coffee. The poet's appearance altogether was highly prepossessing. Maybe half a year, counting this summer. “Hi. I've another reason for supposing he'll pay me a visit.
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