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She attacked his hair resolutely. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. Through yet another doorway she observed an ancient silk brocade loom. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. What his head conceived his hand executed. You know that. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones.
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