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  This file contains content from Ethan Brand by Nathaniel Hawthorne,
  now in the public domain.
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<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?><TextFlow fontSize="14" firstBaselineOffset="50" verticalAlign="justify" fontFamily="Times New Roman" whiteSpaceCollapse="preserve" xmlns="http://ns.adobe.com/textLayout/2008"><p paragraphSpaceAfter="30"><span fontSize="42">There are many </span><span fontSize="42" fontStyle="italic">such</span><span fontSize="42"> lime-kilns in that tract of country, for the purpose of burning the white marble which composes a large part of the</span><span> </span><span fontSize="28">substance of the hills. Some of them, built years ago, and long deserted, with weeds growing in the vacant round of the interior, which is open to </span><span fontSize="14">the sky, and</span><span> grass and wild-flowers rooting themselves into the chinks of the stones, look already like relics of antiquity, and may yet be overspread with the lichens of centuries to come. Others, where the lime-burner still feeds his daily and nightlong fire, afford points of interest to the wanderer among the hills, who seats himself on a log of wood or a fragment of marble, to hold a chat with the solitary man. It is a lonesome, and, when the character is inclined to thought, may be an intensely thoughtful occupation; as it proved in the case of Ethan Brand, who had mused to such strange purpose, in days gone by, while the fire in this very kiln was burning.</span></p><p paragraphSpaceAfter="15"><span>The man who now watched the fire was of a different order, and troubled himself with no thoughts save the very few that were requisite to </span><span lineHeight="240%">his business. At frequent intervals, he flung back the clashing weight of the iron door, and, turning his face from the insufferable glare, thrust in</span><span> </span></p></TextFlow>