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The music and the long vista of the fretted roof filled him with a vague and mystical happiness that he had no words, even mispronounceable words, to express. But some of the smug monuments in the aisles got a wreath of epithets: "Metrorious urnfuls," "funererial claims," "dejected angelosity," for example.
Polly's soul. "Hen-witted gigglers," said Mr. Polly. He went down to the fence, and stood with his hands on it staring away at nothing. He stayed there for what seemed a long time. From the house came a sound of raised voices that subsided, and then Mrs. Johnson calling for Bessie. "Gowlish gusto," said Mr. Polly. "Jumping it in. Funererial Games. Don't hurt him of course.
It gave him a disagreeable feeling about the diaphragm, akin in a remote degree to the sensation he had when the perfidy of the red-haired schoolgirl became plain to him. It made his brow moist. "Going down a vortex!" he whispered. By a characteristic feat of subtraction he decided that he must have spent sixty-two pounds. "Funererial baked meats," he said, recalling possible items.
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