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Updated: May 26, 2025
She was standing at a window, holding before her the broken bit of looking-glass. The thrashers were singing to the moon. Out of the gaping coulée came their chorus, loud, rich, and artfully melodised. It mingled, as it were, with the scent that the wind fanned from the sumach blossoms, yellowish-green. Moon, music, perfume and lovers were to meet.
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