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“She looked at the window in which the candle flames burnt brighter now that the panes were black, and looking at that outside the voices came to her very strangely, as if they were voices at a service in a cathedral, for she did not listen to the words […] The words (she was looking at the window) sounded as if they were floating like flowers on water out there, cut off from them all, as if no one had said them, but they had come into existence of themselves […] like music, the words seemed to be spoken by her own voice, outside her self, saying quite easily and naturally what had been in her mind […]”

(Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse)
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