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Epilogue
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[from Bones Of Contention London: Macmillan 1936]
By the creaking gate Now my guests are sped, I ask pardon for Every word I said; Some to please a friend, Some to praise the State - A tree in the wind. Now, maybe too late, To the stars I cry, Trembling from head to toe, 'From magic we come, To magic we go.'
[from Bones Of Contention London: Macmillan 1936]
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stories
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