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 without equal,—the bottles of wine which had already been changed into water, he had put aside for himself in the office, and he had given the old man for his journey three others, which he had filled up,—also with water.

 

Days passed and weeks elapsed.

Sometimes I used to look back and reflect, and with amazement I became aware that the horizon of my world had thoroughly contracted, and that I had already quite accommodated myself to my surroundings by a process of mimicry. I read the papers daily,—but in doing so, I had the impression that they published news from some distant star. The offensive in Italy suspended. Brusilov advancing against Czernowitz, the waves of war were surging to and fro; I knew that until it was over I could not dream of the end of my stay there—and yet I did not desire the end—so thoroughly had the mimicry worked.

The events of my little world began to interest me more than I had surmised on my arrival. What was happening in Bohemia, I did not know. From the newspapers I had the impression that the wholecountry was snowed under by the censorship, cautious and well wrapped-up people were walking upon frequently trodden paths, whether our land was slumbering, or whether it was dead, was difficult to guess. All was still; If at least a single voice had shouted: We are alive, we are thinking of you all. There was not a sound. And if anything was heard, it was the report of a new arrest, of a new investigation.

I took my exercise, read Julius Caesar, did my eight kilometres every day, in the evening I paid heed so as not to miss the warbling