Chinese histories are antediluvian, not merely in their attempts to go back to the ragged edge of zero of time for a point of departure, but in the interminable length of the sluggish and turbid current which carries on its bosom not only the mighty vegetation of past ages, but wood, hay and stubble past all reckoning.None but a relatively timeless race could either compose or read such histories: none but the Chinese memory could store them away in its capacious abdomen
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宿佳佳
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风雨故人来

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