Carl Kremertartarlau.
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A field with a distant view, one tiny birch tree. The inscription under the picture: loneliness.
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The guests had gone: they had played cards and everything was in disorder: tobacco smoke, scraps of paper, and chiefly—the dawn and memories.
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Better to perish from fools than to accept praises from them.
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Why do trees grow and so luxuriantly, when the owners are dead?
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