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“The sun even rose, — at least a white disk, clear, tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, — peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length of the den…” — Charlotte Brontë
The sun even rose, — at least a white disk, clear, tintless, and almost chill-looking as ice, — peeped over the dark crest of a hill, changed to silver the livid edge of the cloud above it, and looked solemnly down the whole length of the den…