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Chapter 35 No.35

We anchored here at Yalta, Russia, two or three days ago. To me the place was a vision of the Sierras. The tall, gray mountains that back it, their sides bristling with pines-cloven with ravines-here and there a hoary rock towering into view-long, straight streaks sweeping down from the summit to the sea, marking the passage of some avalanche of fo

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