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The mushroom man

There were some who said he, too, might have sprung from the earth overnight in some moist, dark place. He was stocky and brown with mushroom pleats of wrinkles in his strong, sad face. With a tired old horse and a creaking cart he brought his moonpale merchandise along the winding lanes. From none could better be had at twice the price. Pale, plump, and smooth and musky sweet from doorknob large to button small, from lane to lane and house to house he traveled till he'd sold them all. None knew for certain whence he came or when, for sure, he would return: a seasonal phenomenon like wind and wasp, like frost and fern.

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