It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds. “Why on earth did you TELL me?” he cried. Well, I've had to be. “There is no—Good God!” he exclaimed. "And now, Mrs. Could you pull over? She asked. I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense.
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