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163 stories from 11 authors
Jerome Searing, a private soldier of General Sherman's army, then confronting the enemy at and about Kennesaw Mountain, Georgia, turned his back upon a small group of officers with whom he had been talking in low tones, stepped across a light line of earthworks, and disappeared in a forest.
Around the major’s eyes were two white circles where his snow-glasses had protected his face from the sun on the snow.
She had delayed, because of the dew-wet grass, in order to put on her overshoes, and when she emerged from the house found her waiting husband absorbed in the wonder of a bursting almond-bud.
He had a dreamy, far-away look in his eyes, and his sad, insistent voice, gentle-spoken as a maid’s, seemed the placid embodiment of some deep-seated melancholy.
Poirot and I were expecting our old friend Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard to tea.
"Do you think, Colonel, that your brave Coulter would like to put one of his guns in here?" the general asked.