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It isn't time that is passing by. It is you and I, it is you and I. by Ruskin Bond
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The last puff of the day-wind brought from the unseen villages the scent of damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping undergrowth, and rotting pine-cones. That smell is the true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets into the blood of a man he will, at the last, forgetting everything else, return to the Hills to die by Rudyard Kipling
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