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The Anderson intelligencer. (Anderson Court House, S.C.) 1860-1914, December 13, 1860, Image 1

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In litkroibcirt $owd---?Mti> iff politics, ptrato> Itctiis, gtab, ^ritnltet, Stititcc aft %?
BY JAMES A. HOYT.
ANDERSON COURT HOUSE, S. C, THURSDAY MORNING, DECEMBER 13, 1860.
VOLUME 1.?NUMBER 18.
%n Interesting ?>kq.
mm wmmt_ &?ws*
I II.
The next day, and one ov two that suc?
ceeded, were spent in riding, driving, walk?
ing, or in home amusements, according to
the state of the weather. But no matter
"what the occupation which took up our
time, I continued my assiduities to Lady
Maria, the daughter of a poor earl, but
the heiress to a distant relative's wealth
^nd estates.
Tom was equally attentive, but I am
bound to say that hils attentions were not
"equally well met. My heart began to
beat as I found myself the favorite. Wild
"visions of the future began to cross my
brain. I wanted a few months of bein<>:
? of age, when I should become my own
master and that of a small property I had
from my mother.
No selfish reflection on the folly of mar?
rying on three hundred a year entered my
head. That wits precisely my income, be?
sides my pay. I thought I could live up?
on it; and even so blissful did the prospect
seem, that I actually determined, to sell
out rather than delay my happiness. I
believed in but one thing?my love, ar?
dent, devoted and sincere, for Maria.
Men, and women too, have the cruel
courage to laugh at these early passions,
and to cover them with ridicule. It is
possible that many, perhaps the majority
of youths, are incapable of feeling love en?
durable and eternal at so early a period
of their career. On this point I am inca?
pable of giving an opinion. But this I do
know, that in my case it was the one pas?
sion of my life. I felt as keenly, as deep?
ly, as devotedly as ever mortal man did
feel?more keenly, I do believe, than those
whose blunted feelings are in after life at?
tracted by beauty and grace.
Life had no charm,existence no delight
save her. Others thought so, too; and. as
I was aware of my brother's preference, I
brought the affair to an issue.
It was Christmas eve. The day was
lovely. The snow was hard and crisp and
dry. Shakespeare's Hue would truly not
have applied, for no
"Kain and wind beat dark December."'
We had walked out. I, as usual, by the
CSerclsc of a little maneuvering, had La?
dy Maria on my arm. My brother Tom,
who was slower in his movements, was
ioVoed to content himself with sister Fan*
I suppose he did not wish to appear to
watch us; so as we came to Dilcot Lane
lie turned to the right as we turned to the
left. The paths, met about a mile below.
Our path was down a valley, with rows
of dark fir-trees on either side?a shelter?
ed pleasant place it was in the summer,
and not without its attraction in the Win?
ter, even if its being free from gusty wind
puffs were alone considered. About a
quarter of the distance was passed over in
silence. I could not talk. Lady Maria
tried me once or twice. I answered her
in monosyllables. At length she began
the conversation in a tone to tender and
considerate I could not but respond.
"Dear Harry," she said, "are you not
well ?"
"Well enough in body."
"What!" cried Lady Maria, in her joyous
tone, "something pressing on your mind ?
Can you find no physician ! Can I do
anything?"
"You and you only," I said very grave
She looked at me with a keen and pen?
etrating glance, which I shall never for?
got. She turned pale as she did so. and
beni her eyes upon the ground.
"Well, Harry," she said, sadly.
"Maria, it is no use my disguising the
truth any longer. I love you?I love you
with all my heart and soul. Nay, do not
interrupt me. From the very first even?
ing I came home my senses have left me.
I am wild with intense, earnest passsion.
Mine is no day's fancy. I have cast my
whole soul upon this one issue?you or no?
thing. With you this earth would be the
most joyous of earth ; without you, a
dreary waste. I have not spoken with?
out reflection. Maria, I have said that I
wish to succeed in life, but I begin to fan?
cy that love is worth all ambition. I am
willing to leave the army, In a few
months I shall be of age; my fortune is
small; but if I dared to hope that you?
you?could but learn to love me, it would
be enough for both.
"Harry, is it possible/' said the lovely
girl, with beaming eyes, "that you
know not of my wealth?of my for?
tune '("
"Fortune ?" I gasped, letting go her arm,
and looking horror stricken.
"Go on," said Maria, kindly; that would
make no difference to me."
"Dearest, beloved girl of my heart, par?
don my presumption. I had lio suspicion
' I ?
that you were any other than the portion?
less girl I knew a year ago. Had I sus?
pected'this " I added, proudly, "I should
have crushed the dawning passion within
rny heart; 'tis now too late?rich or poor,
my heart is irrevocably gone, I should
have delayed?I should have hesitated?
but I feared my brother might speak
first. Ho is somebody?I am nobody."
'?Your brother, Harry, would have been
rejected," said Lady Maria, dryly; <: and
I would not willingry offend 3-ou, but you
must let me think this but a burst of bo}*
isli passion."
I staggered as she spoke.
"Jfo! I was a boy when T came here?
a happy, merry, careless boy?I am iicw
a man, and you have made me so. It re?
mains for you to decide whether my man?
hood shall be one of glorious happiness, or
whether I become a desperate and hope?
less wretch, whose career upon earth
heaven in its mercy will shorten."
"Don't! don't!!" she cried, -don't say
such wicked things."
"They arc not wicked. Maria. It is
even so. Like the gambler I have unwit?
tingly placed my .whole existence on the
hazard of a die?death or life upon a wo?
man's smile. You may try to deceive
yourself, but you must believe me. When
once a man's eves have fixed themselves
in love upon you, it is forever."
"Harry Hareourt," said Lady .Maria,
quickly, "I would not believe it true lor
all the wealth of the Indies."
"Why ?" said I. trembling as if with the
ague.
"Because I can never be yours," she
continued with a deep sigh.
??You do not love me,""l gasped.
"Harry Harcout, why press me on this
painful subject? I tell you plainly that 1
can never?no, never be yours.".
"But why ?"
"I am engaged to another, and shall be
married in a month."
"Ah! I suspected it?my brother!" I
shrieked.
"2*0; to one you do not know, and
whose name in 3-our present humor. I
would rather not mention."
"Heaven have mercy on me ! Is this
reality, or some horrid dream! Can it be
true ??another's !"
"I am very sorry. Harry!" she said in
her softest, tenderest tone ; "I should not
have come had I suspected-"
".Sorry, sorry," I cried, "sorry, indeed !
Why, 'tis buta boy's heart broken?noth?
ing more. But?but?is this engagement
irrevocable ?"
??I have been engagod this twelve
month," faltered poor .Maria, who really
did feel for me.
"And you love him ?"
file is a man of noble character; a man
to respect rather than love. He is much
older than I am?and yet I had looked
forward with delight to our union as of
one wise and discreet, promising great
happiness?until just now."
"Until just now." 1 repeated.
"Yes, Harry?if that is any satisfaction
to you?know that I regret my precipi?
tancy; I should have seen more of the
world ere I tied myself. Dc not mistake
me. Your passion takes me by surprise,
hut had I been free, gratitude, pride?for
you a noble fellow, Harry?would proba?
bly have led me to return your generous,
your disinterested affection. It is now
too late. - My word is irrevocably given,
and to talk even of what might have been
is a crime. Not another word, Harry, or
I leave you. Calm y o ursel Lore very body
will be talking about us. I shall leave as
soon as possible. Would that I had not
come!"
I was stunned, overwhelmed and anni?
hilated, I felt like some guilty wretch con?
demned to die. I knew that hope there
was none. Lady Maria'Teinpleton would
not have been so hard, but to temper her
refusal. Another's! It was fearful to
think of?it was maddening, and it nearly
drove me mad. When I joined my broth?
er and sister I tried to rail}-. It was hut
a faint attempt. It was mo consolation
for me to know that evening Lady Maria
refused him also. I pitied him ; 1 pitied
any one who had to endure the torture
of her smile, and knew it was anoth?
er's.
I believe earth has no such other pain
as this. How I passed over that Christ?
mas eve, and how 1 endured that Christ?
mas day,I know not. I heard the siren's
voice, but I understood iL not.
It was very late, and the merry part}'
was about to brc.ik up. I had made my
arrangements to start at day-break.
"Lady Maria," said I, in as stately a
manner as I could assume?it was very
unkind and very ungenerous, but I could
not hold it?"I come to wish 3*011 good
bye. I leave to-morrow morning to join
m3T regiment.1'
"So soon," she replied, raising her eyes
brimful of tears to mine. "Why go ? The
Chrismas merry makings arc not over ?
and who knows, ere the new year,
you may be heart whole or happy!
"Never?I must go," I said, coldly.
"Harry," she replied, meekly, "do not
go. Your father, brothers, sisters, will all
blame me. You were to sta}- until Twclth
day." ??
'?I cannot endure tins torture?it is too
much," I cried.
"Harry, Harry, stay for my sake?or
rather I will go."
"I will not allow it. My departure is
irrevocably fixed-."
"Infatuated boy!" said she, and turned
away to hide her tears.
Before a weck I had exchanged into
a regiment on the verge of departure to
India.
I spare the reader my campaigns in In?
dia. I arrived there is a desperate mood.
I had rejected the advances of the young
ladies who accompanied me on my jour?
ney. I hated the sight of a woman. I
landed a misanthrope?disappointed, and
glad to follow a career that promised early
death.
At the end of this time I was invalided
home. I was very ill; wound-; and chole?
ra had laid me as low as they well could.
During the whole time I never wrote
home once, and received no letters. I had
1113' income unspent at my banker's. I
determined to die comfortably, so travel?
ed overland to Marseilles, and thence to
Paris. I felt that I had not many months
to live, so took up rn}Tquarters at the Ho?
tel des Princes. As an invalid I engaged
an apartment on the first floor?expensive,
but very comfortable.
I was selfish, morbid, valetudinarian,
full of fancies and monomanias; a tyrant to
my servant, disagreeable to all around me.
What cared I? The world and I had no
further relation. I was dying.
On my arrival in Paris I had some spare
cash, but drew on my London agents for
more, after advising them of my arrival.
I bade them transfer any balance which
might be due to my bank in Paris. I re?
ceived an answer by return of posls :
"The balance due to 3-011 and now in
our hands is seventeen thousand and some
odd pounds. Are we to transfer the
whole amount to your account.or will you
draw for whatcveryou require ? We shall
feel highly honored by tho latter course,
which will show your intention of confin?
ing our service."
What on earth did the}' mean ? The
men must have lost their senses.
I turned to the back of the letter?"Sir
Henry Harcourf, Bart."
?.My father and brother dead !" I cried
involuntarily. I hastened to my bank?
ers.
"Were you not aware. Sir Henry?" said
L-. the banker.
"Had not the slightest idea. Excuse
me, J will call again."
And I hurried back to my hotel in a
mood of mind which may be more readily
imagined than described. My father and
mother died believing me an undutiful
son and a bad brother, when 1 was but
engrossed in the web of a hopeless pas?
sion.
I had sisters, a station to keep up. I
coldly resolved to many some English !
girl, and in the peace and tranquility of a
country life to forget my sorrows. Or 1
would get Fanny and Mary married, and
be the good brother and uncle. At all
events, I would do something. Strange
that I no longer thought of dying. My
head, however, was in a great whirl, and
I felt rather faint. Hurrying on.I reach?
ed my hotel, hastened up stairs, opened
the door,and sank upon a sofa. I believe
I did not faint, but sleep soon overcame
me. It was nearly evening when I awoke,
and I saw I was not alone. Two females
sat in conversation by the window. It
must be my two sisters. I started to my
feet.
"Sir Henry," said a low voice.
I shivered all over.
"Lady Maria," I replied, in cold and
freezing accents, "this is an honor I little
expected, and which I must say I can
scarcely apprec iate."
"Nay, Sir," said she, a little, and only a
little, haughtily, "it is I who have to de?
mand an explanation. These arc my
apartments. I returned just now, and
you may imagine my bewilderment du
finding a gentleman fast asleep on my i?o
fa?my delight on finding it was you."
??Delight, madam !" I said, for I was
firm and collected now; "I can scarcely
understand your delight at meeting your
victim, and lest you should find an ex?
planation of your words difficult, allow me
to retire."
"Stay one moment." exclaimed Lady
Maria. Though pale, she was more beau?
tiful than ever; there was a soft melan?
choly in her eyes which I dared not min?
utely examine. "One moment. Sir Hen?
ry. Have you received no letter from
Fanny?*'
""Not from one living soul, madam. I
did not give my address to any one. I
hurried f :om place to place, and never, if I
I could help it, visited the same locality
! twice."
"Then why have you come here ?"
"To d*e!"
"To die! You aro as well as ever you
?were in your life."
"Madam, from that hour when in your
seductive society, I learned the fatal art
of love, 1 have never known one moment 's
happiness or health. In sickness, in bat?
tle on the field, in the tent?I could find
no rest. Your image was ever there. I
chased the tiger and the wild elephant, in
the hope by such savage amusement to
blunt try feeling, but in vain. Behold,
madam! for once a man who for four years
had been dying for love?four years !?
During this time what have you been do?
ing?"
"Waiting for 3'ou.IIarry," said the siren,
with her soft eyes full of tears.
"Waiting for me. madam!" I cried, in a
towering passion ; "are you the?a wid?
ow ? Worse?worse?than a wife ?"
"I never married; Hairy," she continu?
ed, meekly.
"Never married!" I gasped.
"Never married, infatuated boy! You
little knew that young as you were, you
had awakened in my bosom, feelings
which I dared not avow. I was an affi?
anced wife. Still I did not give up all
hope. I determined to confess all to him.
to explain frankly your oiler and 1113- al?
tered sentiments, pledging myself, how?
ever, to fulfill my part of the contract if
he held me to my vow. I could not even
hint this to you, and 3-ct did I not ask
3-011 to wait?I begged you to stay. I
hinted what might happen. Do 3-ou not
recollect? But you wildly disappear?
ed. Had you paused and reflected, wo
might have been a steady old married
couple!"
It was a dream of joy I could not real?
ize to nvyself. I sank on my chair half
fainting. When I came to, I found Lady
-Maria and her aunt, Mrs. Curt, bathing
my temples.
"But how came I here?in\-our room?"
I said after some whispered words.
?Wait," said Lad}- Maria, blushing. "I
read in the Morning Post of your arrival
at the Hotel des Princes.twy ill. I thought
you were hurrying home in answer to a
lector of your sister Fanny's, in which I
had allowed her to tell you all; so I thought,
as you were very ill, the nurse 3-ou wanted
was?was?"
"Your future wife." said Mrs. Curt,
laughing, while Maria Templcton blushed
cri rason.
"Heaven bless 3-ou," I muttered; and,
catching her in my arms, I imprinted on
her lips the first kiss of love, though the
aunt did frown a little.
I need scarcely add that I did not die.
I am happ3'?vcr3* happy; perhaps the
happier for my trials; 3-ct I often regret
the fouryoars of misery I endured through
my precipitancy. Still, I have great rea?
son to bo grateful that the genuine pas?
sion of 1113- life should have terminated so
well, and that, unlike so many in this
world, 1113- wife should be my first love.
Such is Life.?So lately dead! So
soon forgotten. 'Tis the way of the
world. We flourish awhile. Men take
us by the hand, and are anxious about the
health of our bodies, and laugh at our
jokes, and we really think, like the fly on
the wheel, that wo have something to do
with the turning of it. Some day we die
and are buried. The sun does not stop
for our funeral; cveiything goes on as
usual; we are not missed in the streets;
men laugh at new jokes; one or two
hearts feel the wound of affliction; one or
two memories still hold our names and
forms; but the crowd moves in its daily
circle; and in three da3*s the great wave
sweeps over our steps and washes out the
last vestige of our earthly foot-prints.
-?
Governor S., of South Carolina, was a
splendid lawyer, and could talk a jury out
of their seven senses. He was especially
notcd for his success in criminal cases, al?
most always clearing his client. He was
once counsel for a man accused of horso
stealing. He made a long, eloquent, and
touching speech. The jury retired, but
returned in a few moments, and with tears
in their eyes, declared "not guilty." An
old acquaintance stepped up to the prison?
er and said:
"Jem. the danger is past; and now,
horror bright, didn't you steal that home ?"
To which Jem replied :
"Well, Tom, I've all along through11
took the horse, but since I've heard the
Governor's speech, I don't believe I did."
-4?
" I say, Mr. Impudence, what are 3-011
doing with your hand in my pocket ?"?
" I axes your pardon, mister, but in
this here cold vether von scarcely knows
vere von puts his hands."
Scene in an Arkansas Hotel.
A contributor to the Spirit of the
Times, thus describes a scene at the An?
thony House, in Little Rock, Aarkansas :
Late one bitter coldnightin December,
some eight or nine years ago, L. came in?
to the bar-room, as usual, to take part in
whatever was going on. For some rea?
son the crowd had dispersed sooner than
was customary, and but two or three of |
the town folks were there, together with
a stranger, who had arrived a half hour
or longer before, and who, tired, wet, and
muddy, from a long Arkansas stage ride,
his legs extended, and shoes off, was con?
soling himself with two chairs and a nap,
opposite the center of a blazing fire. Any
oito who has traveled until ten o'clock in
a rough winter night, over an Arkansas
road, can appreciate the fruition before
that fireplace.'
The drowsy examplo of the stranger
had its effect on the others, and L., who
took a seat in the corner, for lack of con?
versation was reduced to the poker for
amusement. He poked the fire vigorous?
ly for a while, until it got red hot, and be?
coming disgusted, was about to drop it
and retire when he discovered the great
toe of the stranger's foot protruding
through a hole in one of his socks.
Here was a relief to L. He placed the
glo?ing poker within a foot of the melan?
choly sleeper's toe, and began slowly to
lessen the distance between them; one by
one the others, as they caught the joke,
began to open their eyes, and being awa?
kened, mouths expanded into grins, and
grins into suppressed giglcs?and one in?
continent fellow's into a broad laugh.
Closer and closer the red hot poker near
ed toward the unfortunate toe. The heat
caused the sleeper restlessly to move his
band. L. was about to apply tho poker,
when a sound of click! arrested his atten?
tion. He looked at the stranger?the
latter with one eye open, had been watch?
ing his proceedings, and silently brought
a pistol to bear upon L. In a voico just
audible, he muttered in a tone of great de?
termination:
'Most burn it! Burn it! Jest burn it,
and I'll be d-d if I don't stir you up
with ten thousand hot pokers in two sec?
onds !
L. laid down the poker instantly, and
remarked
"Stranger, let's take a drink?in fact,
gentlemen, all of you."
L. afterwards said they were the cheap?
est drinks he ever bought.
-
A lady having remarked that awe is
the most delicious feeling a wife can hold
toward her husband, Fanny Fern thus
comments
Awe of a man whose whiskers you
have trimmed, whose hair you have cut,
whose cravat you have tied, whose shirt
you have put in the wash, whose boots
and shoes you have kicked into the clos?
et, whose dressing gown you have worn
while combing your hair, who has been
down in the kitchen with you at eleven
o'clock at night to hunt for a chicken
bone, who has hooked your dresses, un?
laced your boots, fastened your bracelets,
and tied your bonnet; and who! has stood
before your looking-glass with thumband
finger on proboscis, scratching his chin;
whom you have puttered and teased;
whom you have seen asleep with his
mouth wide open?ridiculous!
A Good Character.?A good charac?
ter in a young man is what a firm founda?
tion is to the architect?whoever proposes
to erect a building on it can build with
safety; but let a single part of this be de?
fective, and he goes on a hazard, amid
doubting and distrust, and ten to one the
edifice he erects on it will tumble down at
last, and mingle all that was built on it in
ruins. Without a good character pover?
ty is a curse; with it, it is scarcely an evil.
All that is bright in the hope of youth, all
that is calm and blissful in the sober scene
of life, and that is soothing in the vale of |
years, centers in and is derived from good
character.
-?
Very Goon.?A minister's wife says:
" The first time I took my eldest boy to
church, when he was two years and a
half old, I managed, with caresses and
frowns and candy, to keep him very still
till the sermon was hall done. By this
time his patience was exhausted, and he
climbed to his feet, and stood on these at,
looking at the preacher (his father) quite
intently. Then, as if he had hit upon a
certain relief for his troubles, he pulled me
by the chin to attract my attention, and
then exclaimed, in a distinct voice.
"Mamma, make papa say Amen!"
An exchange says a little child
had made a stool, no two legs of which
were of a length. While in vain trying
to make it stand upon the floor, he look?
ed in his mother's face and asked, " Docs
God see everything?" '; Yes, my child."
" Well," replied the son, " I guess he will
lauo-h when he sees this stool."
Man and Woman.-^TIic following ex?
tract is from an address delivered by Prof.
Jos. LeConte, at the Lanrensvillc Female
College Commencement in July last:
"It seems to mo that the essential
difference between man and woman in
their whole natures, is -perfectly illustra?
ted by bodily conformation, and is sum?
med up in the two words?Strength and
Beauty. The essential characteristic of.
man?that which constitutes his man?
hood?is strength, bodily, intellectual,
and moral (the last two being, of course,
by far the most important constituents-of
manhood.) while the essential characteris?
tic of woman?that which constitutes her
womanhood?is Beauty and Grace; Beau?
ty of person, of mind, and of character,
refinement, modesty, parity?in a word,
all that ineffable grace which floats like
an aroma about the person of a refined,
pure-minded woman, and which, like a
halo of glory, shrouds her from vulgar
gaze and unholy thoughts. Beauty of
person and refinement of mind and heart
may and do infinitely adorn and elevate a
man, but do not make him man. So if
to the essentially womanly characteristics
of beauty, grace, refinement/ modesty,
purity, and tenderness, there be added
something of strength of .intellect, power
of will and physical courage, it may dig?
nify, but cannot make the woman. No
amount of refinement and tenderness can
redeem the character of a man in whom
the essentially manly characteristic of
strength is wanting ; and no amount of
strong-mindedodncss can compensate in
woman for the want of the true feminine
virtues of grace, modesty, and purity."
Truth.?Truth is the basis of practical
goodness ; without it all virtues are mere
representations wanting the reality - and
having no foundation, they quickly provo
their evanescent nature and disappear as
"the morning dew."
Whatever brilliant abilities we may pos?
sess if the dark spot of falsehood exists
in our hearts it defaces their splendor and
destroys their efficacy. If Truth be not
our guiding spirit we shall stumble upon
the "darkmountains," the eloudi of er?
ror will surround us, and we shall wander
in a Labyrinth) the intricacy of which will
increase as we proceed in it. No art can
unravel the web that Falsehood weaves
which is more tangled than the knot of
the Phyrgian king.
Falsehood is ever fearful, and shrinks
beneath the steadfast piercing eye of
Truth. It is ever restless in racking tho
invention to form tome fresh subterfuge
to escape detection. .Its atmosphere is
darkness and mystery; iHuifiSjfiiJP he~~
tray, and leads its-followers int ^ the depths
I of misery.
I Truth is the spirit of light and beauty,
and seeks no disguise; its noble features
are always unveiled, and sheds a radiance
upon every object within their influence.
It is robed in spotless white, and con?
scious of its purity, is fearless and un?
daunted ; it never fails its votaries, but
conducts them through evil report and
good report?without spot or blemish, it
breathes of heaven and happiness, and is
ever in harmony with the Great First
Cause.
The consciousness of the truth nerves
the timid and imparts dignity to their ac?
tions. It is an internal principle of hon?
or which renders the possessor superior
to fear; it is always consistent with it?
self and needs no ally. Its influence will
remain when the luster, of all that once
sparkled and dazzled has passed away.
-#
Gratitude.?"What the beautiful flow?
er is to the earth gratitude is to the heart
of man." It is the incense of love, arising
from a soul touched by divine goodness
and softened by the acts of kindness
shown to him by his fellow men. It is
the delicious bloom of spirit that would
spend itself in thanksgiving to God, ac?
knowledging in tenderness from the heart
the blessings and favors received. Like
the gentle diops of rain and the warm
rays of the sun, which fall upon the earth
to give nourishment to the plant, and by
which means the fields in spring time are
clothed with rich verdure, so gratitude
gives nourishment to the affections for
truth and clothes the character with heav?
enly beauty. It makes life sweeter under
every circumstance?filling it with scenes
of ecstacy and driving away the scenes of
grief. Our burdens arc made lighter; our
trials more endurable. The ungrateful
man never finds a real friend to sympa?
thize with him in his hoars of sorrow;
while he who is grateful finds all along his
pathway those hearts are in sympathy
with his own?comforting him in his
scenes of gladness. Let us feel the obliga?
tion we owe to God and to one another;
and let our hearts swell with gratitude to
all according to the kindness shown us,
and we shall become better fitted for the
life which is to come.

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