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Literature
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Short Story
Turban
Sitting in the dusty drawing room by the road, Khan Bahadur Mottaleb Saheb thinks. That he is thinking is evident from his eyes, which have heavy bags beneath them.
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To a Dead Crow
Gay minstrel of the Indian clime! How oft at morning's rosy prime When thou didst sing in caw, caw numbers, Vexed I've awoke from my sweet slumbers, And to avoid that hateful sound,
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