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So the Nightingale sang to the Oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar




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[the little Swallow] was in love with the most beautiful Reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth... (O. Wilde).

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My typewriter must be handy, he is my second self ( - ).

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Daddy, the doctor telephoned and said she had left here her flashlight, she must be somewhere in the bedroom. - , , , ( ) - .

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