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There
is
a
vast
melancholy
in
the
canticles
of
the
wolves,
melancholy
infinite
as
the
forest,
endless
as
these
long
nights
of
winter
and
yet
that
ghastly
sadness,
that
mourning
for
their
own,
irremediable
appetites,
can
never
move
the
heart
for
not
one
phrase
in
it
hints
at
the
possibility
of
redemption.
The replay is still saving.