They were cutting aftermath on all sides, which gave the neighbourhood, this gusty autumn morning, an untimely smell of hay.
With that she told me that though she spake of her father, whom she named Chremes, she would hide no truth from me: […]
“’Sfoot,” Mr. Editor, — what exquisite nonsense hast thou here suffered to pass wholly unnoticed?
Before my father, Hasidic music was mere folksong. He raised it to the level of art.
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