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SPAMCAPITAL OMEGA: THE REMAKE OF THE REMAKE OF THE SPAM

Scrooge had observed this change, but never spoke of
it, until they left a children's Twelfth Night party, when,
looking at the Spirit as they stood together in an open
place, he noticed that its hair was grey.
 
"Are spirits' lives so short?" asked Scrooge.
 
"My life upon this globe, is very brief," replied the Ghost.
"It ends to-night."
 
"To-night at midnight. Hark! The time is drawing near."
 
The chimes were ringing the three quarters past eleven at that moment.
 
"Forgive me if I am not justified in what I ask," said
Scrooge, looking intently at the Spirit's robe, "but I see
something strange, and not belonging to yourself, protruding
from your skirts. Is it a foot or a claw?"
 
"It might be a claw, for the flesh there is upon it," was
the Spirit's sorrowful reply. "Look here."
 
From the foldings of its robe, it brought two children;
wretched, abject, frightful, hideous, miserable.
 
They knelt down at its feet, and clung upon the outside of its garment.
 
"Oh, Man! look here. Look, look, down here!" exclaimed the Ghost.
 
Yellow, meagre, ragged, scowling, wolfish;
but prostrate, too, in their humility.
 
Where graceful youth should have filled their features out,
and touched them with its freshest tints, a stale and shrivelled
hand, like that of age, had pinched, and twisted them, and
pulled them into shreds.
 
Where angels might have sat enthroned,
devils lurked, and glared out menacing.
 
No change, no degradation, no perversion of humanity, in any
grade, through all the mysteries of wonderful creation, has
monsters half so horrible and dread.
 
Having them shown to him in this way, he tried to say they
were fine children, but the words choked themselves, rather
than be parties to a lie of such enormous magnitude.
 
"Spirit! are they yours?" Scrooge could say no more.
 
"They are Man's," said the Spirit, looking down upon them.
"And they cling to me, appealing from their fathers.
 
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