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over-prepared the event, that much was ominous. With middle-ageing care I had laid out just the right books. I had almost turned down the pages.

Beauty is so rare a thing. So few drink of my fountain.

So much barren regret, So many hours wasted! And now I watch, from the window, the rain, the wandering busses.

"Their little cosmos is shaken"— the air is alive with that fact. In their parts of the city they are played on by diverse forces. How do I know? Oh, I know well enough. For them there is something afoot.