IT was the month of January, and the keen Russian winter had wrapped the woods and marshes in a snowy garment, and put the rivers in prison behind thick panes of ice glass, and dressed up the tall pines and firs till they looked like sheeted ghosts under the cold starlight. But in Mr. John Oliver's roomy wooden house, standing on ground somewhat raised, and overlooked by the huge chimneys of a big mineral oil factory, was perfect warmth and comfort, for the great stoves built into the walls of the room, and faced with white glazed tiles, kept the whole place of an equal temperature.…
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