Friday, October 07, 2016

First Paragraph

The gulls swept over Dover. They sailed out like flakes of the fog, and tacked back towards the hidden town, while the siren mourned with them; other ships replied, a whole wake lifted up their voices - for whose death? The ship moved at half-speed through the bitter autumn evening. It reminded D. of a hearse, rolling slowly and discreetly towards the "garden of peace," the driver careful not to shake the coffin, as if the body minded a jolt or two. Hysterical women shrieked among the shrouds. 

- From The Confidential Agent by Graham Greene


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