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Excerpt from The Reproach of Annesley, Vol. 3 of 3
All the eight bells in the church steeple were pealing down in joyous tumult through the sun-gilt smoke canopy which was spread above the slate roofs of Medington one mild November afternoon the streets of that quiet little town were filled with an unwonted life and stir, thickest and most turbulent in the vicinity of the town-hall, the open space in front of which was black with human beings. It is curious that. Crowds, no matter of what they may be composed, always are black; it is curious, too, that human faces in the mass are always of one tint, a very pale bronze without the faintest Shade of pink; probably no one ever saw a crowd blush or turn pale, yet these truly awful phenomena must some times occur.
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