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Rain storms in the night the weather is showing its April caprice. From the window one sees a gray and melancholy sky, and roofs glistering with rain. The spring is at its work. Yes, and the implacable flight of time is driving us toward the grave. Well each has his turn! "Allez, allez, o jeunes filles, Cueillir des bleuets dans les bles!" I am overpowered with melancholy, languor, lassitude.
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