They were sharp and dripping with black blood. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. He was just getting cross about your being late for dinner—you know his way—when it came. After a certain amount of manœuvring, however, he was induced to crawl around, and in a few minutes came to stop again before a tall brightly-painted house, which seemed like an oasis of colour and assertive prosperity in a long dingy row.
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