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What a horrible palace! he thought. Restless, he wandered through the
maze, asking himself what it all meant--whether he was in prison;
chafing, thirsting for the fresh air. He repeated Dea! Dea! as if that
word was the thread of the labyrinth, and must be held unbroken, to
guide him out of it. Now and then he shouted, "Ho! Any one there?" No
one answered. The rooms never came to an end. All was deserted, silent,
splendid, sinister. It realized the fables of enchanted castles. Hidden
pipes of hot air maintained a summer temperature in the building. It was
as if some magician had caught up the month of June and imprisoned it in
a labyrinth. There were pleasant odours now and then, and he crossed
currents of perfume, as though passing by invisible flowers. It was
warm. Carpets everywhere. One might have walked about there, unclothed.
Gwynplaine looked out of the windows. The view from each one was
different. From one he beheld gardens, sparkling with the freshness of a
spring morning; from another a plot decked with statues; from a third, a
patio in the Spanish style, a little square, flagged, mouldy, and cold.
At times he saw a river--it was the Thames; sometimes a great tower--it
was Windsor.
It was still so early that there were no signs of life without.
He stood still and listened.
"
Oh! I will get out of this place," said he. "I will return to Dea! They
shall not keep me here by force. Woe to him who bars my exit! What is
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