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The Man crouched against her, shrouded in the mantle of her hair, overcome with weariness. She was mothering them all, rocking herself slowly and singing gently her silly little song. The crooning of it over and over seemed to hush them with a sense of security. "You are my ownty, Dear little donty, Sweetest and wonty, Pudding and pie; Good little laddie, Just like your daddie.
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