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forefoot was very like a snore, and as I listened to it the effect of Wolf Larsen's swift rush from sublime exultation to despair slowly left me. Then some deepwater sailor, from the waist of the ship, lifted a rich tenor voice in the 'Song of the Trade-wind': ¡¡¡¡ Oh, I am the wind the seamen love- ¡¡¡¡ I am steady, and strong, and true; ¡¡¡¡ They follow my track by the clouds above, ¡¡¡¡ O'er the fathomless tropic blue. ¡¡¡¡ ¡¡¡¡CHAPTER EIGHT. ¡¡¡¡SOMETIMES I THOUGHT Wolf Larsen mad, or half mad at least, what with his strange moods and vagaries. At other times I took him for a great man, a genius who had never arrived. And, finally, I was convinced that he was the perfect type of the primitive man, born a thousand years or generations too late, and an anachronism in this culminating century of civilization. He was certainly an individualist of the most pronounced type. Not only that, but he was very lonely. There was
Wednesday, November 28, 2007
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"The Lady of Shalott"
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