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I KNOW a Jew fish crier down on Maxwell Street with a
     voice like a north wind blowing over corn stubble
     in January.
He dangles herring before prospective customers evincing
     a joy identical with that of Pavlowa dancing.
His face is that of a man terribly glad to be selling fish,
     terribly glad that God made fish, and customers to
     whom he may call his wares, from a pushcart.


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