We've gotten, my old friend Philip and I, without realizing it, into the presidential hunting grounds at Rambouillet. We trail, enthused, through this marvelous countryside, motionless in the blue morning. And suddenly I'm aware that everything around me is stirring, a myriad of little movements spring to sight. I discover at the same time that all the colors I'm seeing are authentic colors—I sense that coming, like a spasm.
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