Vera, Nina, Grogoff, Semyonov, Lawrence, Bohun and I,
all shared in them and all had our sensations and experiences. But my
own were drab and ordinary enough, and from the others I had no account
so full and personal and true as from Markovitch. He told me all about
that great day afterwards, only a short time before that catastrophe
that overwhelmed us all, and in his account there was all the growing
suspicion and horror of disillusion that after-events fostered in him.
But as he told me, sitting through the purple hours of the night,
watching the light break in ripples and circles of colour over the sea,
he regained some of the splendours of that great day, and before he had
finished his tale he was right back in that fantastic world that had
burst at the touch like bubbles in the sun. I will give his account, as
accurately as possible in his own words. I seldom interrupted him, and I
think he soon forgot that I was there. He had come to me that night in a
panic, for reasons which will he given later and I, in trying to
reassure him, had reminded him of that day, when the world was suddenly
Utopia.
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