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Harz dodged before the canvas like a fencer finding his distance; Dawney took his seat on a packingcase. "The snows have gone with a rush this year," he drawled. "The Talfer comes down brown, the Eisack comes down blue; they flow into the Etsch and make it green; a parable of the Spring for you, my painter." Harz mixed his colours. "I've no time for parables," he said, "no time for anything.
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