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At the northern end of the clearing some lovesick swain surrendered to sentiment and in a whimsical nasal voice began singing: "Come all ye young people, for I'm going for to sing Consarnin' Molly Pringle and her lov-yer, Reuben King." The thin penetrating shriek of a child somewhere in the forest pricked our ears, the clear falsetto of its fright silencing the singer and leaving his mouth agape.
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