The Man Who Laughs


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The cloud, full of winds, dragging its tumour over the deep, cramped and  
eat more and more into the sea round the hooker. Not a gull, not a  
sea-mew, nothing but snow. The expanse of the field of waves was  
becoming contracted and terrible; only three or four gigantic ones were  
visible.  
Now and then a tremendous flash of lightning of a red copper colour  
broke out behind the obscure superposition of the horizon and the  
zenith; that sudden release of vermilion flame revealed the horror of  
the clouds; that abrupt conflagration of the depths, to which for an  
instant the first tiers of clouds and the distant boundaries of the  
celestial chaos seemed to adhere, placed the abyss in perspective. On  
this ground of fire the snow-flakes showed black--they might have been  
compared to dark butterflies flying about in a furnace--then all was  
extinguished.  
The first explosion over, the squall, still pursuing the hooker, began  
to roar in thorough bass. This phase of grumbling is a perilous  
diminution of uproar. Nothing is so terrifying as this monologue of the  
storm. This gloomy recitative appears to serve as a moment of rest to  
the mysterious combating forces, and indicates a species of patrol kept  
in the unknown.  
The hooker held wildly on her course. Her two mainsails especially were  
doing fearful work. The sky and sea were as of ink with jets of foam  
running higher than the mast. Every instant masses of water swept the  
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Page
155 156 157 158 159

Quick Jump
1 236 472 708 944