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He lay face downwards two tiny fists tight-clenched against his cheeks, his feet curled up to meet them, his tail swung gracefully across his eyes. Nine weeks had he lain thus, self-entombed. Within the hollow of the old hazel-stump he had fashioned a rough sphere of honeysuckle bark; within this, again, a nest of feathery grass stems. He had put the roof on last of all.
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