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Quotation by Vladimir Nabokov
I could isolate, consciously, little. Everything seemed blurred, yellow-clouded, yielding nothing tangible. Her inept acrostics, maudlin evasions, theopathies—every recollection formed ripples of mysterious meaning. Everything seemed yellowly blurred, illusive, lost.
Vladimir Nabokov (1899–1977), Russian-born U.S. novelist, poet. "The Vane Sisters," Nabokov's Dozen (1966).
The end of the story, an anagram: Icicles by Cynthia, meter from me Sybil.
Surprise me with a
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