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An I had to tar myself away from the clingin gerasp of my weepin infant, the tender bud an bulossum of an old man's life tar myself away, an feel myself a outcast. Over me hovered contennooly the image of the pinin infant, an my heart quivered with responsive sympathy. An I yearned an I pined an I groaned an I felt that life would be intoll'ble till I got back to the babby.
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