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“Buried how long?” “Almost eighteen years.” “You had
abandoned all hope of being dug out?” “Long ago.” The words
were still in his hearing as just spoken-distinctly in his hearing as
ever spoken words had been in his life-when the weary passenger
started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the
shadows of the night were gone.

He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There
was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had
been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet
coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden
yellow still remained upon the trees. Though the earth was cold
and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and

“Eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun. “Gracious
Creator of day! To be buried alive for eighteen years!”
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