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 The Hungarian Writer = —C’mon, he said, and do this for me. Like in the movie, he said, c’mon. She would not do it. He did not know if that meant she would not do it now or if that meant she would never do it. Not never, he hoped. She wanted to talk about a book she was reading. He was not against books. For them, really. Or, in a sense. The book was by a Hungarian writer. He thought that a bit much. What did he know about Hungary? He knew where it was. Maybe a little of its history in and after World War II. That was it. And this other thing. She was talking about the writer’s life. And this other thing— ...

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