Spring: -I- -II- -III-
The Stamp Album: -IV- -V- -VI- -VII- -VIII- (IX) -X- -XI- -XII-
In the Municipal Park: -XIII- -XIV- -XV- -XVI-
Springtime Twilight: -XVII-
The Villa: -XVIII- -XIX- -XX- -XXI- -XXII- -XXIII- -XXIV- -XXV- -XXVI- -XXVII-
Bianka’s Lineage: -XXVIII- -XXIX- -XXX- -XXXI- -XXXII- -XXXIII-
Hiatus: -XXXIV- -XXXV- -XXXVI- -XXXVII-
Finale: -XXXVIII- -XXXIX- -XL-
IX
I HAD MANY reasons to suppose that the book was meant for me. Many signs pointed to the fact that it had been presented to me as a special duty, a personal mission and lieutenancy. I realised that when it came down to it, no one else considered himself to be its owner — not even Rudolf, who had served it, rather. To him it was essentially an alien thing. He was like a reluctant and lazy serf with the obligation of a corvée. At times, jealousy flooded his heart with bitterness. He mutinied internally against his role as the steward of a treasure that no longer belonged to him. He gazed with envy at the reflection of faraway worlds wandering across my face in a quiet scale of colours. Only mirrored in my features could he perceive the remote gleam from those pages, in which his soul had no part to play.
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