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When her speed becomes steady and consistent, she begins to sing; initially quite low, then louder and at last with a jazzy; wild and riotous; madness. The song of her whistle screams at the curves of deafening tunnels, brakes and innumerable bolts.

It is always light aerial and underneath it goes the elate meter; joyful rhythm; of her wheels. Steaming through the metal landscape on her railway lines, the express plunges into new eras of wild happiness where her speed throws up strange shapes, broad curves and parallel clean like the steel of guns. At last, further than Edinburgh or Rome and beyond the crest of the world, she reaches the night where only a low streamline brightness of phosphorous on the tossing hills is white. Like a comet through flames she moves entranced; hypnotized; and wrapped in neither neither her music with no bird song nor bough with honey buds, shall ever be equal to her.

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12y ago

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