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| Days and days in rain and muck, in the confusion of wild hunting calls and through bracken and weir and thorned bushes, gradually you lose all account of passage, could not begin to estimate the path travelled by hour or mile. Then you find yourself in front of a marked tree, under the shadowy eaves of eld, oak, and linden, and here you fall on a log and let an oblivious flurry knock you senseless. You dream endlessly until a morning wakes you with the trickling of a brook and the wailing of a young human child. |
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