
We used to go fishing. On the distant lake, where pervalence always well caught pike and large perch. Our experienced “Muscovites” cheerfully rolled down the snowy highway. Quietly rustled the heater fan, the radio was flowing pleasant melody, and there were no signs of trouble. And then… Oh, it’s “suddenly”! — threw the thick snow. White muslin closed the horizon, and “wipers” hoarsely humming, barely parted namipasumu on the windshield slush.
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