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 But listen, son— Neoptolemus
To what? Tell me. Chorus
To my latest thoughts. For he is not far from his home, but nearby. And not with music of the flute, like a shepherd pasturing his flocks, does he come,—  no—but crying out a far-sounding howl as he stumbles, perhaps, from tortuous pain, or as he scans the haven unvisited by any ship. His cries are loud, and terrible.
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