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The over-note to the clamour an uncanny thing too is the soft rustle-down of the tea itself stacked in heaps, carried in baskets, dumped through chutes, rising and falling in the long troughs where it is polished, and disappearing at last into the heart of the firing-machine always this insistent whisper of moving dead leaves.
All trembling alive With pink and grey jellies, your sea-fruit, You touch the strange lumps, And mouths gape there, eyes open, all manner Of horns and of humps. Or it is the "quick rustle-down of the quail-nets," or the "whistling pelt" of the olives, when Scirocco is loose, that invades our ears.
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