Hell is a strait and dark and foul-smelling prison, an abode of demons and lost souls, filled with fire and smoke. I fear more than that the chemical action which would be set up in my soul by a false homage to a symbol behind which are massed twenty centuries of authority and veneration. Till what? Till he yield to me? No. Achieving this transit, I uncovered the glass without a sound and, applying my face to the pane, was able, the darkness without being much less than within, to see that I commanded the right direction.
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