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It forbids—all sorts of things. The devil is on top, not below. “Where to?” he asked, as the hansom drove up. You wouldn't rob Mr. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. Sometimes the music would be tender and dreamy, like a native mother's crooning to her young; sometimes it would be so gay that the flesh tingled and the feet were urged to dance; again, it would be like the storms crashing, thunderous. There are so many things I want to tell you, and they stand on such different levels, that the effect is necessarily confusing and discordant, and I find myself doubting if I am really giving you the thread of emotion that should run through all this letter.
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