Behind a hedge of laurel a light glimmered in the window of a kitchen and the voice of a servant was heard singing as she sharpened knives. They embraced softly,--impelled by the grey rainy light, the wet silent trees, the shield-like witnessing lake, the swans. He seemed to feel a flood slowly advancing towards his naked feet and to be waiting for the first faint timid noiseless wavelet to touch his fevered skin. Imagine all this, and you will have some idea of the horror of the stench of hell.
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