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her high-school-girlish prose could evoke with plangent strength

every whiff of damp leaf, every autumn-rusted frond of fern in the St. Petersburg countryside

my livid light flitted across the six-pillared white portico at the back of my uncle’s mute, shuttered manor

Only in very expert hands could it be made to transcend its humble origin—the pallid poetry of eighteenth-century France

After riding on horseback most of the afternoon, bicycling in the colored dusk was a curiously subtle, almost discarnate feeling