Preludes - I - T.S. Eliot

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The winter evening settles down with smell of steaks in passageways. Six o'clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps the grimy scraps of withered leaves about your feet and newspapers from vacant lots; the showers beat on broken blinds and chimney-pots, and at the corner of the street a lonely cab-horse streams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.

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