Miserabile dictu!

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Dark at five o’clock. What travesty is this?

Why did my ancestors feel the need to wander north from sunny Africa, where there never is heard a discouraging word and the skies are not clouded all day?

And if they insisted on leaving Africa—I don’t know, perhaps I’m descended from a line of antelopophobes—couldn’t they have stopped in Sicily or Portugal or somewhere, instead of trekking all the way up to these dismal latitudes?

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