Its murmur besieged his ears like the murmur of some multitude in sleep; its subtle streams penetrated his being. The wretched child had spoken exactly as if she had got from some outside source each of her stabbing little words, and I could therefore, in the full despair of all I had to accept, but sadly shake my head at her. All day he had imagined a new meeting with her for he knew that she was to come to the play. It is they, the foul demons, who are made in hell the voices of conscience.
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