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Paragraph 120
The calling wind

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Now I sit here and I print. the baby sleeps on. The wind comes creeping in under the door. It calls, "Come, come, petite Françoise , come." It calls to me to come go exploring. It sings of the things that are to be found under leaves. It whispers the dreams of the tall fir trees. It does pipe the gentle song the forest sings on gray days. I hear all the voices calling me. I listen -- but I cannot go.
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Last updated: February 6, 2003.