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on the face of the season on my way here you may compare them the face of everything the hazel and white-thorn sycamore, lime and ash at York, ripe walnuts bricks percussive softness, within a mile and broke into fine hills and shadow today it is in the north clear sunshine but cold but made fresh shoots and shall continue the best ever their person had not betrayed them betrayal is far greener with such a year, and your care is odious, vile, though not betrayed %%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%