It keeps dangling in front of my eyes. Lincoln lost to Glenbrook South miserably, the score eight to two. Indeed, it is rather a matter of whose death is close. But it is all over now, and presently there will be some one else. For hats that fail and hats that flare; Toppers their universal wear; A man scores always, everywhere. His pulses beat fast as he walked, his feet fell lightly upon the pavement.
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