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Wreckage

           Here,movedbycuriosity,Iturnedasidetofind,amongatangleofredfronds,thewarpedandbrokendogcartwiththewhitenedbonesofthehorsescatteredandgnawed. ForatimeIstoodregardingthesevestiges.... 

           ThenIreturnedthroughthepinewood,neck-highwithredweedhereandthere,tofindthelandlordoftheSpottedDoghadalreadyfoundburial,andsocamehomepasttheCollegeArms. AmanstandingatanopencottagedoorgreetedmebynameasIpassed. 

           Ilookedatmyhousewithaquickflashofhopethatfadedimmediately. Thedoorhadbeenforced;itwasunfastandwasopeningslowlyasIapproached. 

           Itslammedagain.ThecurtainsofmystudyflutteredoutoftheopenwindowfromwhichIandtheartillerymanhadwatchedthedawn. Noonehadcloseditsince. ThesmashedbusheswerejustasIhadleftthemnearlyfourweeksago. Istumbledintothehall,andthehousefeltempty. ThestaircarpetwasruffledanddiscolouredwhereIhadcrouched,soakedtotheskinfromthethunderstormthenightofthecatastrophe. OurmuddyfootstepsIsawstillwentupthestairs. 

           Ifollowedthemtomystudy,andfoundlyingonmywriting-tablestill,withtheselenitepaperweightuponit,thesheetofworkIhadleftontheafternoonoftheopeningofthecylinder. ForaspaceIstoodreadingovermyabandonedarguments.ItwasapaperontheprobabledevelopmentofMoralIdeaswiththedevelopmentofthecivilisingprocess;andthelastsentencewastheopeningofaprophecy: "Inabouttwohundredyears,"Ihadwritten,"wemayexpect" 

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Roboto Lora
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