One could easily fix his type; it never, happily, dies out. The air rings with the song of our industry - rolling mills and blast furnaces, dynamos, dams, and assembly lines - the chorus of America the bountiful. --Probably I shall go away, he said. It was an odd accident of thought that I should have happened at such a moment to be particularly and very gratefully struck with the obedience of my little charges.
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