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Abstract

I wended my way down the walk to The Wombat's winter wickiup overlooking the Wrapahammock River. It had stormed the night before and the landscape was covered with what Iranians (the whilom Persians) call barf, but when we English-speakers more sensibly refer to as snow. The Wombat's chatelaine, Pocahontas-like in a feather chaplet, purringly raised the weighty woolen blanket serving as a door to admit me. Gazing on her feline svelteness and chrysoberyl eyes I reflected that my friend must be a secret Encratite or Hieracite not have married this direction descendant of the Marquis de Carabas' right bower.

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