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"Here," she said, pushing open the door of the inner room. He lay on the couch fast asleep, in a glorious tangle of limbs, the picture of radiant boyhood. "This one, I think, has never been to Cisterna." "No. He goes into the mountains with the woodcutters every morning an hour before sunrise. It is up beyond Collepardo seven hours' labour, and seven hours' march there and back.
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