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Time wastes too fast_ the days and hours of it_ are flying over our heads like little clouds on a windy day, never to return more _ everything presses on _ whilst thou art twisting the lock, - see! it grows grey_ and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!
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Time wastes too fast_ the days and hours of it_ are flying over our heads like little clouds on a windy day, never to return more _ everything presses on _ whilst thou art twisting the lock, - see! it grows grey_ and every time I kiss thy hand to bid adieu, and every absence which follows it, are preludes to that eternal separation which we are shortly to make!

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