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Whoosh What summer hasn't shaken its share of flourishing girls from arbors where, aloof, they could forbear? What summer hasn't brandished its swatches of daffodil accompli? It makes a memorable decor, that twisted Mississippi, with its five willows for whoosh. The girl you courted, pendant from a swing, is there forever in her weightlessness of veils while the woman you married once and for all walks out (in fall, in tight black pants) and bears a heavy heart into the avenue. 135 ...

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