Why can’t you let it be?’ Gerald grinned at him. Give me the chisel, Blueskin. Brendon,” Anna said. She directed him to an old part of the highway, a featureless stretch of old farmhouses capped in snow, with the occasional working silo. The sight o' your 'andsome phiz allys does me good. Gods! what it must be to pour out strong, splendid verse—mighty lines! mighty lines! If I do, Ann Veronica, it will be you.
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