The abstracts hover like dull angels:
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heir whiteness bears no relation to laundry,Snow, chalk or suchlike. They’reThe real thing, all right: the Good, the True- Salutary and pure as boiled water,Loveless as the multiplication table.While the child smiles into thin air. Six months in the world, and she is ableTo rock on all fours like a padded hammock.For her, the heavy notion of Evil Attending her cot is less than a bellyache,And Love the mother of milk, no theory.They mistake their star, these papery godfolk.
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