It is a passing strange, George said. In the summer, I complained about the heat. I remember it was unbearable, but the memory no longer seems truly real. With the white ground and frost in the air, I convince myself I would give anything to sweat once more - and if I did, I do not doubt I would yearn to return to this cold. Man is a fickle creature, Richard.
-Conn Iggulden
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