The clouds, in huge cumuli, were hurrying as to some great rendezvous, from which they were to be let loose for their work of destruction. [Please select]
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The cumuli That peeped above the mountain-tops would burn Carmine a space; the cirrus-whorls on high, More delicate than sprays of maiden fern, Streak with pale rose the peacock-breasted sky, Then blanch. [Please select]
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