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or something of that kind. I faintly feel that some longer lyric was scrawled on the walls of what looked like a bedroom, something beginning: When laying what you call your head, O Harrogate, upon your bed, and there all my memory dislimns and decays. But I could still see quite vividly the plain plastered walls and the rude, irregular writing, and the places where the red chalk broke.
There in the distance a cloud dislimns which but now lured me to death with its girlish smile. What do I care now? The struggle endures for eternities. The wind drives me on. I avoid the clefts, wade through the springs; I measure the distances, for now I have to jump.... The depths are yawning about me. The ice under my feet begins to rock.
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