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At times the storm redoubling its violence, the hanged man revolved on
his own pivot, turning every way at once towards the swarm, as if he
wished to run after the birds; his teeth seemed to try and bite them.
The wind was for him, the chain against him. It was as if black deities
were mixing themselves up in the fray. The hurricane was in the battle.
As the dead man turned himself about, the flock of birds wound round him
spirally. It was a whirl in a whirlwind. A great roar was heard from
below. It was the sea.
The child saw this nightmare. Suddenly he trembled in all his limbs; a
shiver thrilled his frame; he staggered, tottered, nearly fell,
recovered himself, pressed both hands to his forehead, as if he felt his
forehead a support; then, haggard, his hair streaming in the wind,
descending the hill with long strides, his eyes closed, himself almost a
phantom, he took flight, leaving behind that torment in the night.
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