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It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other... Options
Daemon
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 12:00:00 AM
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It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
KSPavan
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 6:19:47 AM

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Quotation of the Day

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)
ChristopherJohnson
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 7:56:07 AM

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I remember him writing somewhere else something like "it was still winter in the mornings and evenings and spring in the afternoons".
Bully_rus
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 9:39:26 AM
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Daemon wrote:
It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)


Yeah. It was just one of those moods so common in nature...
capitán
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 10:31:15 AM

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Just like that moment between waking up and getting up every morning.
monamagda
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 2:50:07 PM

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Context from:Barnaby Rudge

Chapter 10

It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer, and in its uncertainty inclines now to the one and now to the other, and now to both at once--wooing summer in the sunshine, and lingering still with winter in the shade--it was, in short, on one of those mornings, when it is hot and cold, wet and dry, bright and lowering, sad and cheerful, withering and genial, in the compass of one short hour, that old John Willet, who was dropping asleep over the copper boiler, was roused by the sound of a horse's feet, and glancing out at window, beheld a traveller of goodly promise, checking his bridle at the Maypole door.

He was none of your flippant young fellows, who would call for a tankard of mulled ale, and make themselves as much at home as if they had ordered a hogshead of wine; none of your audacious young swaggerers, who would even penetrate into the bar--that solemn sanctuary--and, smiting old John upon the back, inquire if there was never a pretty girl in the house, and where he hid his little chambermaids, with a hundred other impertinences of that nature; none of your free-and-easy companions, who would scrape their boots upon the firedogs in the common room, and be not at all particular on the subject of spittoons; none of your unconscionable blades, requiring impossible chops, and taking unheard-of pickles for granted. He was a staid, grave, placid gentleman, something past the prime of life, yet upright in his carriage, for all that, and slim as a greyhound. He was well-mounted upon a sturdy chestnut cob, and had the graceful seat of an experienced horseman; while his riding gear, though free from such fopperies as were then in vogue, was handsome and well chosen. He wore a riding-coat of a somewhat brighter green than might have been expected to suit the taste of a gentleman of his years, with a short, black velvet cape, and laced pocket-holes and cuffs, all of a jaunty fashion; his linen, too, was of the finest kind, worked in a rich pattern at the wrists and throat, and scrupulously white. Although he seemed, judging from the mud he had picked up on the way, to have come from London, his horse was as smooth and cool as his own iron-grey periwig and pigtail. Neither man nor beast had turned a single hair; and saving for his soiled skirts and spatter-dashes, this gentleman, with his blooming face, white teeth, exactly-ordered dress, and perfect calmness, might have come from making an elaborate and leisurely toilet, to sit for an equestrian portrait at old John Willet's gate.

Read more : http://www.literaturepage.com/read/dickens-barnaby-rudge-88.html
zina antoaneta
Posted: Sunday, January 14, 2018 5:42:22 PM

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Daemon wrote:
It was on one of those mornings, common in early spring, when the year, fickle and changeable in its youth like all other created things, is undecided whether to step backward into winter or forward into summer.

Charles Dickens (1812-1870)


Lovely quote, thank you!
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