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esting companions. The history of an ordinary day was this: Miss Burney had to rise and dress herself early, that she might be ready to answer the royal bell, which rung at half after seven. Till about eight she attended in the queen's dressing-room, and had the honour of lacing her august mistress's stays, and of putting on the hoop, gown, and neck-handkerchief. The morning was chiefly spent in rummaging drawers and laying fine clothes in their proper places. Then the queen was to be powdered and dressed for the day. Twice a week her majesty's hair was curled and craped; and this operation appears to have added a full hour to the business of the toilette. It was generally three before Miss Burney was at liberty. Then she had two hours at her own disposal. To these hours we owe great part of her Diary. At five she had to attend her colleague, Madame Schwellenberg, a hateful old toad-eater, as illiterate as a chamber-maid, as proud as a whole German chapter; rude, peevish, unable to bear solitude, unable to conduct herself with common decency in society. With this delightful associate Frances Burney had to dine, and pass the evening. The pair generally remained together from five to eleven; and often had no other company the whole time, except during the hour from eight to nine, when the equerries came to tea. If poor Frances attempted to escape to her own apartment, and to forget her wretchedness over a book, the execracle old woman railed and stormed, and complained that she was neglected. Yet, when Frances stayed, she was constantly assailed with insolent reproaches. Literary same was, in the eyes of the German crone, a blemish, a proof that the person who enjoyed it was meanly born, and out of the pale of good society. All her scanty stock of broken English was employed to express the contempt with which she regarded the authoress of Evelina and Cecilia. Frances detested cards, and indeed knew nothing about them, but she soon found the least miserable way of passing an evening with-Madame Schwellenberg was at the card-table, and consented with patient sadness to give hours, which might have called forth the laughter and tears of many generations, to the king of clubs and the knave of spades. Between eleven and twelve the bell rang again. Miss Burney had to pass twenty minutes or half an hour undressing the queen,

and was then at liberty to retire, and dream that

she was chatting with her brother by the quiet
hearth in St. Martin's Street, that she was the
centre of an admiring assemblage at Mrs.
Crewe's, that Burke was calling her the first
woman of the age, or that Dilly was giving
ner a check for two thousand guineas.
Men, we must suppose, are less patient than
women; for we are utterly at a loss to conceive
how any human being could endure such a life,
while there remained a vacant garret in Grubb
Street, a crossing in want of a sweeper, a parish
workhouse, or a parish vault. And it was for
such a life that Frances Burney had given up
liberty and peace, a happy fireside, attached
friends, a wide and splendid circle of acquaint-
ance, intellectual pursuits in which she was

qualified to excel, and the sure hope of what
to her would have been affluence.
There is nothing new under the sun. The
last great master of Attic eloquence and Attic
wit, has left us a forcible and touching descrip.
tion of the misery of a man of letters, who, lured
by hopes similar to those of Frances, had en-
tered the service of one of the magnates of

, Rome: “Unhappy that I am,” cries the victim

of his own childish ambition: “would nothing content me but that I must leave mine old pur. suits and mine old companions, and the life which was without care, and the sleep which had no limit save mine own pleasure, and the walks which I was free to take where I listed, and fling myself into the lowest pit of a dungeon like this? And, O God, for what? Is this the bait which enticed me? Was there no way by which I might have enjoyed in freedom comforts even greater than those which I now earn by servitude? Like a lion which has been made so tame that men may lead him about with a thread, I am dragged up and down, with broken and humbled spirit, at the heels of those to whom, in my own domain, I should have been an object of awe and wonder. And, worst of all, I feel that here I gain no credit, that here I give no pleasure. The talents and accomplishments, which charmed a far different circle, are here out of place. I am rude in the arts of palaces, and can ill bear comparison with those whose calling, from their youth up, has been to flatter and to sue. Have I then two lives, that, after I have wasted one in the service of others, there may yet remain to me a second, which I may live unto myself!” 'Now and then, indeed, events occurred which disturbed the wretched monotony of Frances Burney's life. The court moved from Kew to Windsor, and from Windsor back to Kew. One dull colonel went out of waiting, and another dull colonel came into waiting. An impertinent servant made a blunder about tea, and caused a misunderstanding between the gentlemen and the ladies. A half-witted French Protestant minister talked oddly about conjugal fidelity. An unlucky member of the household mentioned a passage in the Morning Herald reflecting on the queen, and forthwith Madame Schwellenberg began to storm in bad English, and told him that he had made her “what you call perspire!” A more important occurrence was the royal visit to Oxford. Miss Burney went in the queen's train to Nuneham, was utterly neglected there in the crowd, and could with difficulty find a servant to show the way to her bed-room, or a hair-dresser to arrange her curls. She had the honour of entering Oxford in the last of a long string of carriages which formed the royal-procession, of walking after the queen all day through refectories and chapels, and of standing half dead with fatigue and hunger, while her-august mistress was seated at an excellent cold collation. At Magdalene College, Frances was left for a moment in a parlour, where she sank down on a chair A good-natured equerry saw that she was ex hausted, and shared with her some apricots

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and bread, which he had wisely put into his pockets. At that moment the door opened; the queen entered; the wearied attendants sprang up; the bread and fruit were hastily c. *.cealed. “I found," says poor Miss Burney, “that our appeates were to be supposed annibulated, at the same moment that our strength was to be unvincible." Yet Oxford, seen even under such disadvantaxes, “revived in her," to use her own words. “a consciousness to pleasure which had long la-a nearly dormant." She forgot, during one moment, that she was a waiting-maid, and felt as a woman of true genus might be expected to feel amid venerable remains of antiquity, beautiful works of art, vast repositories of knowledge, and memorials of the oustrious dead. Had she still been what she was before her father induced her to take the most fa’al step of her life, we can easily imagine what p'easure she would have derived stem a yist: to the noblest of En:lish cities. She mosht. *...teed, have been forced to travel in a hackchase, and might not have worn so fine a gown of Chambery gauze as that in which she. to:ered after the royal party; but with what deoxht would she then have paced the ciels"ters of Magdalene, compared the antique gleem of Merton with the splendour of Christ Church, and looked down from the deme of the Radclose Library on the magnificent sea of turrets and battlements below ! How gladly would learned men have laid aside for a few hours. Posiar's Odes and Artstetle's ethses to escort the authoress of Cecilia from college to eel-, lege What meat little banquets would she have found set out in their monastic cells With what eagerness would pictures, medals, and illuminated missals have been breacht forth from the most mysterious cabinets for her amusement? How much she would have had to hear and to tell about Johnson as she waised over Pembroke, and about Reynods in the ante-chapel of New College? But these. indu'sences were not for one who had sed herself into bondage. s About eighteen months after the visit to Oxord, another event diversified the weansome lose which Frances, led at court. Warren Hastings was brought to the bar of the house. o, Peers. The queen and princesses were: F. when the trial commenced, and Miss urney was permiued to attend. During the subsequent proceedings a day-rule for the same Purpose was occasionally granted to her; for. the queen took the strongest interest in the trial, and, when she coald not go herself to Westminster Hall, hked to receive a report of what passed from a person who had singular Powers of observation, and whe was, moreover, Personally acquainted with sesne of the roost ished managers. The portion of the Diary which relates to this celebrated Proceeding is lively and picturesque. Yet"we read it, we own, with pain; for it seems to us to prove that the fine understanding of Frances Burney was beginning to feel the pernicious influence of a mode cf hise which is as incomtible with health of mind as the air of the ptine marshes is with health of body. From the first day she espouses the cause of

Hastings with a presumptuous vehemence and acronauy quite unconsistent with the role-or and suavity of her ordinary deportinent. She shudders when Burke enters the Hao at the head of the Commons. She prenounces on the cruel oppressor of an unaccent man. She is at a loss to coeceive how the * -look at the defendaal, at d not blash. Walham cooes to her from the manager's box * offer her refreshment. “But," says she. - I could not break bread with him." Then, aga-s, she exclaims—” Ah, Mr. Waudham, how came you ever engaged in so cruel, so units: a cause * - Mr. Bake saw me," she says, - and he bowed with the most marked cis- or of manner." This, be it ebserved, was .-s: after his opening speech, a speech which of produced a mishty edect, and which certa - a no other orator that ever lived cool base made. “My curtsy," she ce:::..ones - was the toost ungrateful, distant, and cod; I cos'd to de coherwise; so hurt I felt to see him at the head of such a cause." New, pet en'y bol Burke treated her with constant k Edness - as the very last act which he perforus: on the 'ay ea which he was turned eet of the Pagocce, about four years bei te this trial. was to make Dr. Burney organ's: of Chelsea Hosretal. When, at the Wes’ulus:er election, Dr. Barney was div. let between his era: *e r "his favour and has tery wouiens. Burke a he neo'est manner disciained all rich: to exile: a sacrifice of principle. “You have : :o eras otosations to me,” he wrote: * but if you had as many as I really wish it were in my power. as it certainly is my desire, to lay ea you. I hope you do not think me capable of confering them, in order to subject your mind or your adairs to a painful and misch-envasserritude." Was this a man to be uncovily treated by a daughter of Dr. Burney, because she chose to differ from him respecting a vast and most complicated question, which he had studed deeply during many years, and which she had never studied at aii? It is clear from Miss Burney's own statement, that when she behaved so unkardly to Mr. Burke, she did not even know of what Hastings was accused. One thing, however, she must have known. that Burke had been able to convince a House of Commons, butterly prejudiced against h_a, that the charges were well-founded; and that Pitt and Dundas had concurred with Fox and Sheridan in supporting the impeachment. Surely a woman of far infernor abilities to Miss Burney might have been expected to see that this never could have happened unless there had been a strong case against the late governor-general. And there was, as all reasonable men now admit, a strong case against him. That there were great public services to be set off against his great crimes, is perfectly true. But his services and his crimes were equally unknown to the lady who so confidently asserted his perfect innocence, and imputed to his accusers, that is to say, to all the greatest men of all parties in the state, not merely error, but gross injustice and barbarity. She had, it is true, occasionally seen Mr. Hastings, and had found his manners and conversation agreeable. But surely she could not


be so weak as to infer from the gentleness of would certainly have been rejected. We see, his deportment in a drawing-room that he was therefore, that the loyalty of the minister, who incapable of committing a great state crime, was then generally regarded as the most heroic under the influence of ambition and revenge, champion of his prince, was lukewarm, indeed, A silly Miss, fresh from a boarding-sehool, when compared with the boiling zeal which might fall intosuch a mistake; but the woman filled the pages of the back-stairs and the wo. who had drawn the character of Mr. Monck-" men of the bed-chamber. Of the regency bill, ton should have known better. - Pitt's own bill, Miss Burney speaks with hor. The truth is, that she had been too long at ror. “I shuddered,” she says, “to hear it court. 8he was sinking into a slavery worse, named.” And again—“O, how dreadful will than that of the body. The iron was beginning "be the day when that unhappy bill takes place! to enter into the soul. Accustomed during I cannot approve the plan of it.” The truth many months to wateh the eye of a mistress, is, that Mr. Pitt, whether a wise and upright to receive with boundless gratitude the slightest statesman or not, was a statesman; and whatmark of royal condescension, to sees wretched; ever motives he might have for imposing reat every symptom of royal displeasure, to asso-strictions on the regent, felt that in some way ciate only with spirits long tamed and broken or other there must be some provision made in, she was degenerating into something fit for for the execution of some part of the kingly her place. Qaeen Charlotte was a violent par. office, or that no government would be left in tisan of Hastings; had received presents from the country. But this was a matter of which him, and had so far departed from the severity the household never thought. It never occurred, of her virtue as to send her countenance to his as far as we can see, to the exons and keepers wife, whose conduct had certainly been as re-" of the robes, that it was necessary that there prehensible as that of any of the frail beauties, should be somewhere or other a poorer in the who were then rigidly excluded from the Eng- state to pass laws, to preserve order, to pardon fish court. The king, it was well known, criminals, to fill up offices, to negotiate with took the same side. To the king and queen foreign governments, to command the army as the members of the household looked sub- and navy. Nay, these enlightened positicians, missively for guidance. The impeachment," and Miss Barney among the rest, weem to have therefore, was an atrocious persecution; the thought that any person who considered the managers were rascals; the defendant was the subject with reference to the public interest, most deserving and the worst used man in the showed himself to be a bad-hearted man. Nokingdom. This was the cant of the whose body wonders at this in a gentleman-asher; palace, from gold stick in waiting, down to the , but it is melancholy to see genuus sinking into table-deckers and yeomen of the silver scul-, such debasement. !ery; and Miss Barney canted like the rest, During more than two years after the king's though in livester tones, and with less bitter recovery, Frances dragged on a miserable exfeelings. istence at the palace. The consolations which The account which she has given of the had for a time mitigated the wretchedness of king's illness, contaigs much excellent narra-' servitude, were one by one withdrawn. Mrs. tive and description, and will, we think, be Delany, whose society had been a great remore valued by the historians of a future age source when the court was at Windsor, was than any equal portion of Pepy's or Evelyn's o dead. One of the gentlemen at the royal Diaries. That account shows, also, how affee- establishment, Colonel Digby, appears to have tionate and compassionate her nature was been a man of sense, of taste, of some readBut it shows also, we must say, that her way ing, and of prepossessing manners. Agreeable of fife was rapidly impairing her powers of associates were scaree in the prison-house, and reasoning, and her sense of Justice. We do he and Miss Burney were therefore naturally not mean to discuss, in this place, the question, attached to each other, 8be owns that she whether the views of Mr. Pitt or those of Mr. valued him as a friend; and it would not have Fox respecting the regency were the more cor- been strange if his attentions had led her to reet. It is, indeed, quite needless to discuss entertain for him a sentiment warmer than that question: for the censure of Miss Burneyi friendship. He quitted the court, and garried falls alike on Pitt and Pox, on majority and . in a way which astonished Miss Burney greatly, minority. 8he is angry with the House of and which evidently wounded her feelings, and Commons for presuming to inquire whether lowered him more in her esteem. The palace the king was mad or not, and whether there, grew duller and dasier; Madame 8chweilen was a chance of him recovering his senses. berg became more and more savage and inso “A melancholy day,” she writes; “news bad sent. And now the health of poor Frances both at home and abroad. At home the dear, began to give way; and all who saw her pale unhappy king still worse; abroad new exam-saee, her emaciated fizure, and her feeble walk, inations voted of the physicians. Good hea-; predicted that her sufferings would soon be over. wens! what an insult does this seem from par- Frances uniformly speaks of her royal misliamentary power, to investigate and bring tress and of the princesses with respect and forth to the world every circumstance of such affection. The princesses seem to have well a malady as is ever held sacred to secreey in deserved all the praise which is bestowed on the most private families! How indignant we, them in the Diary. They were, we doubt not. as feel here no words can say.” It is proper most amiable women. But “the sweet 4-een," to observe, that the motion which roused all as she is constantly called in these volatoes, is this indignation at Kew was made by Mr. Pitt not by any means an object of admiration wo himself; aro that, if withstood by Mr. Pitt, it us. 8he had undoubtedly wease “sough or War. W.-74

know what kind of deportment suited her high station, and self-command enough to maintain that deportment invariably. She was, in her intercourse with Miss Burney, generally gracious and affable, sometimes, when displeased, cold and reserved, but never, under any circumstances, rude, peevish, or violent. She knew how to dispense, gracefully and skillfully, those little civilities which, when paid by a sovereign, are prized at many times their intrinsic value; how to pay a compliment; how to lend a book; how to ask after a relation. But she seems to have been utterly regardless of the comfort, the health, the life of her attendants, when her own convenience was concerned. Weak, severish, hardly able to stand, Frances had still to rise before seven, in order to dress the sweet queen, and sit up till midnight, in order to undress the sweet queen. The indisposition of the handmaid could not, and did not, escape the notice of her royal mistress. But the established doctrine of the court was, that all sickness was to be considered as a pretence until it proved fatal. The only way in which the invalid could clear herself from suspicion of malingering, as it is called in the army, was to go on lacing and unlacing till she dropped down dead at the royal feet. “This,” Miss Burney wrote, when she was suffering cruelly from sickness, watching, and labour, “is by no means from hardness 3f heart; far otherwise. There is ho hardness of heart in any one of them; but it is prejudice, and want of personal experience.” Many strangers sympathized with the bodily and mental sufferings of this distinguished woman. All who saw her saw that her frame was sinking, that her heart was breaking. The last, it should seem, to observe the change was her father. At length, in spite of himself, his eyes were opened. In May 1790, his daughter had an interview of three hours with him, the only long interview which they had since he took her to Windsor in 1786. She told him that she was miserable, that she was worn with attendance and want of sleep, that she had no comfort in life, nothing to love, nothing to hope, that her family and friends were to her as though they were not, and were remembered by her as men remember the dead. From daybreak to midnight the same killing labour, the same recreations, more hateful than labour itself, followed each other without variety, without any interval of liberty and repose. The doctor was greatly dejected by this news; but was too good-natured a man not to say that, if she wished to resign, his house and arms were open to her. Still, however, he would not bear to remove her from the court. His veneration for royalty amounted, in truth, to idolatry. It can be compared only to the grovelling superstition of those Syrian devotees who made their children pass through the fire to Moloch. When he induced his daughter to accept the place of keeper of the robes, he entertained, as she tells us, a hope that some

worldly advantage or other, not set down in the .

:ontract of service, would be the result of her connection wit... the court. What advantage he expected we do not know, nor did he proba- *ly know himself. But, whatever he expected,

he certainly got nothing. Miss Burney had been hired for board, lodging, and two hundred a year. Board, lodging, and two hundred a year she had duly received. We have looked carefully through the Diary, in the, hope of finding some trace of those extraordinary benefactions on which the doctor reckoned. But

we can discover only a promise, never per

formed, of a gown; and for this promise Miss Burney was expected to return thanks such as might have suited the beggar with whom St. Martin, in the legend, divided his cloak. The experience of four years was, however, insufficient to dispel the illusion which had taken possession of the doctor's mind; and between the dear father and the sweet queen there seemed to be little doubt that some day or other Frances would drop down a corpse. Six months had elapsed since the interview between the parent and the daughter. The resignation was not sent in. The sufferer grew worse and worse. She took bark; but it soon ceased to produce a beneficial effect. She was stimulated with wine; she was soothed with opium, but in vain. Her breath began to fail. The whisper that she was in a decline spread through the court. The pains in her side became so severe that she was forced to crawl from the card-table of the old fury to whom she was tethered, three or four times in an evening, for the purpose of taking hartshorn. Had she been a negro slave, a humane planter would have excused her from work. But her majesty showed no mercy. Thrice a day the accursed bell still rang; the queen was still to be dressed for the morning at seven, and to be dressed for the day at noon, and to be undressed at eleven at night. But there had arisen in literary and fashionable society, a general feeling of compassion for Miss Burney, and of indignation both against her father and the queen. “Is it possible,” said a great French lady to the doctor, “that your daughter is in a situation where she is never allowed a holiday?” Horace Walpole wrote to Frances to express his sympathy. Boswell, boiling over with good-natured rage, almost forced an entrance into the palace to see her. “My dear ma'am, why do you stay? It won't do, ma'am ; you must resign. We can put up with it no longer. Some very violent measures, I assure you, will be taken. We shall address Dr. Burney in a body.” Burke and Reynolds, though less noisy, were zealous in the same cause. Windham spoke to Dr. Burney; but found him still irresolute. “I will set the Literary Club upon him,” cried Windham, “Miss Burney has some very true admirers there, and I am sure they will eagerly assist.” Indeed, the Burney family seems to have been apprehensive that some public affront, such as the doctor's unpardonable folly, to use the mildest term, had richly deserved, would be put upon him. The medical men spoke out, and plainly told him that his daughter must resign or die. At last paternal affection, medical authority, and the voice of all London crying shame, triumphed over Dr. Burney's love of courts. He determined that Frances should write a letter of resignation. It was with difficuity

bat, though her life was at stake, she mustered spirit to put the paper into the queen's hands. “I could not,” so runs. the Diary, “summon courage to present my memorial—my heart always failed me from seeing the queen's entire freedom from such an expectation. For though I was frequently so ill in her presence that I could hardly stand, I saw she concluded me, while life remained, inevitably hers.” At last with a trembling hand the paper was delivered. Then came the storm. Juno, as in the AEueid, delegated the work of vengeance to Alecto. The queen was calm and gentle; but Madame Schwellenberg raved like a maniac in the incurable ward of Bedlam. Such insolence? Such ingratitude : Such folly! Would Miss Burney bring utter destruction on herself and her family? Would she throw away the inestimable advantage of royal protection? Would she part with privileges which, once relinquished, could never be regained It was idle to talk of health and life. If people could not live in the palace, the best thing that could befall them was to die in it. The resignation was not accepted. The language of the medical men became stronger and stronger. Dr. Burney’s parental fears were fully roused; and he explicitly declared, in a letter meant to be shown to the queen, that his daughter must retire. The Schwellenberg raged like a wild-cat. “A scene almost horrible ensued,” says Miss Burney. “She was too much enraged for disguise, and uttered the most furious expressions of indignant contempt at our proceedings... I am sure she would gladly have confined us both in the Bastile, had England such a misery, as a fit place to bring us to ourselves, from a daring so outrageous against imperial wishes.” This passage deserves notice, as being the only one in the Diary, as far as we have observed, which shows Miss Burney to have been aware that she was a native of a free country, that she could not be pressed for a waiting-maid against her will, and that she had just as good a right to live, if she chose, in St. Martin's street, as Queen Charlotte had to live at St. James's. The queen promised that, after the next birth-day, Miss Burney should be set at liberty. But the promise was ill kept; and her majesty showed displeasure at being reminded of it. At length Frances was informed that in a fortnight her attendance should cease. “I heard this,” she says, “with a fearful presentiment I should surely never go through another fortnight, in so weak and languishing and painful a state of health. . . . As the time of separation approached, the queen's cordiality rather diminished, and traces of internal displeasure appeared, sometimes arising from an opinion I ought rather to have struggled on, live or die, than to quit her. Yet I am sure she saw how oor was my own chance, except by a change in the mode of life, and at least ceased to wonder, though she could not approve.” Sweet queen! What noble candour to admit that the undutifulness of people who did not think the honour of adjusting her tuckers worth the sacrifice of their own lives, was, though highly criminal, not altogether unnaturall We perfectly understand her majesty's con

tempt for the lives of others where her own pleasure was concerned. But what pleasure she can have found in having Miss Burney about her, it is not so easy to comprehend. That Miss Burney was an eminently skilful keeper of the robes is not very probable. Few wo. men, indeed, had paid less attention to dress. Now and then, in the course of five years, she had been asked to read aloud or to write a copy of verses. But better readers might easily have been found: and her verses were worse than even the poet-laureate's birth-day odes. Perhaps that economy which was among her majesty's most conspicuous virtues, had something to do with her conduct on this occasion. Miss Burney had never hinted that she expected a retiring pension; and indeed would gladly have given the little that she had for freedom. But her majesty knew what the public thought, and what became her dignity. She could not for very shame suffer a woman of distinguished genius, who had quitted a lucrative career to wait on her, who had served her faithfully for a pittance during five years, and whose constitution had been impaired by labour and watching, to leave the court without some mark of royal liberality. George the Third, who, on all occasions where Miss Burney was concerned, seems to have behaved like an honest, good-natured gentleman, felt this, and said plainly that she was entitled to a provision. At length, in return for all the misery which she had undergone, and for the health which she had sacrificed, an annuity of one hundred pounds was granted to her, de pendent on the queen's pleasure. Then the prison was opened, and Frances was free once more. Johnson, as Burke observed, might have added a striking page to his poem on the Vanity of Human Wishes, if he had lived to see his little Burney as she went into the palace and as she came out of it. The pleasures, so long untasted, of liberty, of sriendship, of domestic affection, were almost too acute for her shattered frame. But happy days and tranquil nights soon restored the health which the queen's toilette and Madame Schwellenberg's card-table had impaired. Kind and anxious faces surrounded the invalid. Conversation the most polished and brilliant revived her spirits. Travelling was recommended to her; and she rambled by easy journeys from cathedral to cathedral, and from watering-place to watering-place. She crossed the New Forest, and visited Stonehenge and Wilton, the cliffs of Lyme, and the beautiful valley of Sidmouth. Thence she journeyed by Powderham Castle, and by the ruins of Glastonbury Abbey, to Bath, and from Bath when the winter was approaching, returned well and cheerful to London. There she visited her old dungeon, and found her successor already far on the way to the grave, and kept to strict duty, from morning till midnight, with a sprained ankle and a nervous fever, At this time England swarmed with French exiles, driven from their country by the Revolution. A colony of these refugees settled to Juniper Hall, in Surrey, not far from Norbury Park, where Mr. Lock, an intimate friend of the Burney family resided. Frances visited

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