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This employment seemed to afford him the highest satisfaction; for a diabolical grin—it cannot be called a smile—played upon his face all the time he was engaged in it. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. These were less like streets than labyrinths, hewn through an eternal twilight. About noon, next day, he was able to move; and the gale having abated, he set out homewards with his little charge. You must forgive the poet’s license I take.
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