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Elihu B. Washburne opened his gold watch.
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The airplane plip-plopped down the runway to a halt before the big sign: WELCOME TO CYPRUS.
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"He is very ugly," said his mother.
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Even in high summer, Tintagel was a haunted place; Igraine, Lady of Duke Gorlois, looked out over the sea from the headland.
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The Citadel of Troizen, where the Palace stands, was built by giants before anyone remembers.
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I, Tiberius Claudius Drusus Nero Germanicus This-that-and-the-other (for I shall not
trouble you yet with all my titles) who was once, and not so long ago either, known
to my friends and relatives and associates as "Claudius the Idiot", or "That Claudius",
or "Claudius the Stammerer", or "Clau-Clau-Claudius" or at best as "Poor Uncle Claudius",
am now about ot write this strange history of my life; starting from my earliest chilhood
and continuing year by year until I reach the fateful point of change where, some eight years
ago, at the age of fifty-one, I suddenly found myself caught in what I may call the
"golden predicament" from which I have never since become disentangled.
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It is a curious thing that at my age, fifty-five last birthday, I should find myself taking up a
pen to try and write a history.
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September 1653. The last of summer. The first chill winds of autumn.
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Having no personal commitment to either of the new consuls, Gaius Julius Caesar and
his son simply tacked themselves onto the procession which started nearest to their
own house, the procession of the senior consul, Marcus Minucius Rufus.
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"Brutus, I don't like the look of your skin. Come here to the light, please."
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I am an old man now, but then I was already past my prime when Arthur was crowned King.
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I am blind. But I am not deaf. Becuase of the incompleteness of my misfortune,
I was obliged yesterday to listen for nearly six hours to a self-styled historian
whose account of what the Athenians call "the Persian Wars" was nonsense
of a sort that were I less old and more privileged, I would have risen in my seat
at the Odeon and scandalized all Athens by answering him.
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On Tuesday the freighter steamed through the Straits of Gibraltar and for five
days plowed eastward through the Mediterranean, past islands and peninsulas
rich in history, so that on Saturday night the steward advised Dr. Cullinane,
"If you wish an early sight of the Holy Land you must be up at dawn.
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Bright, clear sky over a plain so wide that the rim of the heavens cut down on it around the entire horizon.
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