It showed the Marsh, an endless plain of grey-green-brown, studded with gnarled black thorn trees and cut by dull grey dykes. It looked like February, a dead water-land in a dead month, except that over it stretched a rainbow so strong and bright that its stripes were reflected in the water below. Flashes of colour leapt from dyke to dyke, setting the Marsh aglow. It was just a painting. Just the Marsh, lit with imaginary beauty. All the same, he looked at it for a long time with a feeling he wasn’t sure how to interpret, and moved on because he had the oddest feeling, just for a second, that
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