Word: saons
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Under the lovely searching of his voice, the whole wild farrago ("Look, look, the dusk is growing! My branches lofty are taking root. And my cold cher's gone ashley. Fieluhr? Filou! What age is at? It saon is late") pacifies into meanings felt if not altogether known. The passage is a rueful promise of what might have been if Joyce had lived to read the whole of his titanic rune...
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