The psychic vibration of him thickened the air of the room as if he were already inside. Pausing with the intention of turning back, he glanced in the direction of the village church, the tower of which could just be seen through the trees. Your life is like a funeral March. The glance, which he threw at the door, was singularly expressive of his character: it was a mixture of alarm, effrontery, and resolution. ‘Oh, peste.
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