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"From France to Italy my steps I bent, And pitcht at Arno's side my household tent. Six years the Medicean Palace held My wandering Lares; then they went afield, Where the hewn rocks of Fiesole impend O'er Doccia's dell, and fig and olive blend." "How did you come to know that?" asked Margery, the usual poetry quoter. "I didn't have to go far for it.
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