(6)hail, and so breaks them, so confuses them, that it seemsimpossible that their calm should ever return, or from theirfragments we should ever compose again the whole, the truth.For our penitence deserves a glimpse only, our toil respiteonly.

The nights now are full of wind and destruction; the treesplunge and bend and their dishonoured leaves fly helter skelteruntil the lawn is plastered with them and they lie packed ingutters and choke rain pipes and scatter damp paths. Also thesea tosses and breaks itself, and should any escaped soul, anysleeper, who fancies that in sleep he has grasped the hand of asharer walk the edge of the sea, no image with divine promptitudeand semblance of serving comes readily to hand bringing the nightto order and making the sea reflect the compass of the soul.He may pace by the hour on the midnight beach but the handdwindles in his hand; the voice bellows in his ear. Almost,one would have thought, it is vain, in such confusion, to askthe night those questions: what, why? which roused the sleeperfrom his dreams, and sent him running down to the waves, to seek,it seemed, a comforter.

Now again, since autumn was far advanced, it was possibleto attempt the house. All the beds were empty; the stray airs,spies, advance guard of great armies, brushed bare mattresses and,as they nibbled and moistened and fanned this way and that, metnothing that wholly resisted them, but only hangings that
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