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I caught flashes of a sad-eyed old dog rolling over and over in the snow and of the white deer lying huddled at the foot of that gravel bank, the masculinity of his antlers sheared off by his fall and his deep red eye gazing reproachfully at me through the film of dust that powdered it. Intourist buses were always parked not far away, and the ringing voices of sour-faced state tour guides could be heard during the day, as regular as the belfry's chiming, echoing through the interior, repeating by rote the authorized version of this particular piece of history.
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