“Writing about the Lumber River, to a man who has spent his summers in dalliance with her, is like writing about his sweetheart. She is a coquettish, as subject to change, as teasing as any girl that goes; and no human angel ever possessed more variable hues and tints and shadows in her misty eyes than his unconscious flirt, where the reflection of flags and reeds and rushes ripple below her banks” |
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