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The idiosyncrasy of this town is smoke. It rolls sullenly from the great chimneys of the iron foundries, and settles down in black slimy pools on the muddy streets. Smoke on the wharfs. Smoke on the dinghy boats, on the yellow river. Clinging in a coat of greasy soot to the house front, the faded poplars, the faces of the passersby. Rebecca Harding

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