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ANONYMOUS
��Was seeking with a motley throng That well-remembered brasserie, And Trilby, hanging on his arm. Was laughing at him merrily.
But I, ah, where was I ? Afar I'd flown to that enchanted shore. Where o'er white-flashing waves the wind From Donegal to Mullaghmore Comes gallivanting bold and free — God grant again I there may be. At Mullaghmore, with Rosalind.
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