The
twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about
the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft
layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the
sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without
stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent.
+ نوشته شده در Wed 7 Nov 2012 ساعت 1:41 PM توسط By Mohammad Mirzaee
|
Hi. Welcome to my blog. My name is Mohammad. I am a student of English Literature. I love English and everything related to it. Contribution to the world is the reason behind the creation of this blog. I hope you enjoy it. Please share your ideas