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The dancers, pale and dusty, leant back in rows against the wall, and with their handkerchiefs went through the motions of fanning or polishing, according to sex. In their midst circulated Farmer Tresidder, with a three-handled mug of shenachrum, hot from the embers, and furred with wood-ash. "Take an' drink, thirsty souls. Niver do I mind the Letterpooch so footed i' my born days."
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