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Lassie: A Narrative Fiction

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In bleak, she sat by my gate, I know not from when, but completely soaked to the bone. The torrent merged with waves of fog sweeping as the fury of the wind hustled. Poor Lassie sat shivering, looking haggard and howled as thunder rolled. My sliding gate, though strong to withstand the tempest, pitied not this dog – a stranger, but not one to me. As strengthened the surging cyclone, I walked down the cold steps for a cup of coffee, when her cry reached me. Through the curtains did I see her quivering, unable to neither fight the storm nor conceal hunger. Guilt jeered at me as I opened the gate and let in Lassie. Like a crippled, she lurched in, looking famished. She loved my last saved bread and meat,and it proe to be sufficient enough to
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