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.:. Furnace without End Those bad winter nights I'd lie listening to the floor furnace start and stop, flames deep in the heart of it flaring, burning a cycle, ceasing, leaving the white-hot metal to cool, tick like the wheel of chance no carnival is without. For over an hour over and over in the night its rhythm slowed, wound down to the almost out, the nearly silent, when all at once the furnace would kick in again with its rumbling fires and I'd shiver at the sure sound of it. 63 ...

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