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Numerous years prior, there carried on a kind old writer. He had a lovely house in a little town. One night abruptly a gigantic tempest emerged from no place. Rain drops began streaming from paradise. The old artist, notwithstanding, was unperturbed. He sat discreetly adjacent to the chimney in the solace of his warm front room. The room was loaded up with the fragrance of crisply broiled apples.
“I feel pitiful for the ones who don’t have a rooftop over their head,” the artist thought.Continue reading “The Mischievous Kid”