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The concertina's wailings, mid-way between her intelligence and ours, served well enough. My own chief feeling was of exultation, crowing over the hooded city-folk, who think that drama and the tricks of colored light and shade have led them to a glimpse of the hem of the garment of Unrest a cheap mean feeling, of which I was afterward ashamed. Maga was not crowing over anybody.
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