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It may be that I have but a few weeks more to live. Every day, therefore, dearest, let me pour out my soul to you, now my one comfort on earth, since my heart was laid in the grave of my Santayana. It is night; all the house is wrapped in slumber; I alone wake and weep. I seldom sleep now, save by fitful snatches. It seems a thousand years since I heard from you, my cool snow-pearl of cousins.
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