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Updated: May 13, 2025
Twice before he had come to me just like this out of the heart of a dreamless sleep. Once in the orchard near Buchatch, on a hot summer afternoon; once in this same room on a moonlit night. Some strange consciousness, rising, it seemed, deep out of my sleep, told me that this would be the last time that I would so receive him. "May I come in?" he said. "If you must, you must," I answered.
"There is no ammunition," I remember crying desperately in Galicia. We had moved further than the question of ammunition now. I had a strange dream that night. I saw my old forest of two years before the very woods of Buchatch with the hot painted leaves, the purple slanting sunlight, the smell, the cries, the whirr of the shell. But in my dream the only inhabitant of that forest was Markovitch.
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