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163 stories from 11 authors
There was not a sound in the forest save the indistinct, fluttering sound of the snow falling on the trees.
This subject of Latin that has been dinned into our ears for some time past recalls to my mind a story—a story of my youth.
The road of the pass was hard and smooth and not yet dusty in the early morning.
The matron had given her leave to go out as soon as the women’s tea was over and Maria looked forward to her evening out.
Mr Holohan, assistant secretary of the Eire Abu Society, had been walking up and down Dublin for nearly a month, with his hands and pockets full of dirty pieces of paper, arranging about the series of concerts.