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User: silviya

As Long As Marcella Could Remember, The Old Farm-House Had Lain In
Shadows, Without And Within.

Behind It Rose The Great Height Of Ben Grief, With His Gaunt Face Gashed
Here By Glowering Groups Of Conifers, There By Burns That Ran Down To
The River Nagar Like Tears Down A Wrinkled Old Face. Marcella Had Read
In Poetry Books About Burns That Sang And Laughing Waters That Clattered
To The Sea For All The World Like Happy Children Running Home From
School. But The Waters On Ben Grief Neither Laughed Nor Sang. Sometimes
They Ran Violently, As Though Ben Grief Were In A Rage Of Passionate
Weeping; Sometimes They Went Sullenly As Though He Sulked.

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