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 “Father Cvok is worthy of the highest respect,” the doctor’s wife once said to the companion, on a misty disagreeable afternoon in autumn.“ Even my husband who hardly ever opens his lips in praise of anybody except maybe once every leap year, says he is quite lost in Záluz̓í, and is as much thrown away there as a violet on a heap of rubbish.”

“Oh, please, do tell me more about him!” begged Jenny.

The two ladies sat down in a window-niche opposite each other, and the doctor’s wife, with her crochet-work in her hand, began in full stream.