and seems to pass him revolving like the sail of a windmill.
The iron gates of the park shut with a jangling clang.
There are footsteps and loud voices; a tumult; a drunken brawl; an alarm of fire; then silence again.
And now at length the city is asleep, and we can see the night.
The belated moon looks over the roofs, and finds no one to welcome her.
The moonlight is broken.
It lies here and there in the squares and the opening of the streets
angular like blocks of white marble.
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