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Your baby grows a tooth， then two，
and four， and five， then she wants some meat directly from the bone. It's all over： she'll learn some words， she'll fall in love with cretins， dolts1， a sweet talker on his way to jail. And you， your wife， get old， flyblown， and rue2 nothing. You did， you loved， your feet are sore. It's dusk. Your daughter's tall. |
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