And then presently these clouds began to wear thin and expose steep, deep slopes, going down and down, with grass and pine-trees, down and down, and at last, through a great rent in the clouds, bare roofs, shining like very minute pin-heads, and a road like a fibre of white silk-Macugnana, in Italy. You know—I wish I could roll my little body up small and squeeze it into your hand and grip your fingers upon it. "Perhaps," replied Wood, doubtfully.
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