The great mountain ranges of Ayeverby,1 were tinged on their summits with sunrise. Their feet, set in deep, quiet pools of water, or in pasture lands that sloped a little downwards, were still blue and shadowy, as though from sleep.
Somewhere, very high up indeed, a bird was singing in a kind of dreadful rapture, its notes came dropping mountainward, like sparks of articulate fire. By contrast, the stillness all around seemed more intense....
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