“Where am I?” he muttered. I want to make you feel that here is a place where the crowd does not clamor nor ill-winds blow. He walked out into the Champs Elysées and sat down. Now, you know where he is bound. And neither had any of that theatricality which demands gestures and facial expression. You’re splendid stuff, you know, but you’ve got nothing ready to sell. Clearing the few impediments in his way, he soon reached the condemned pew, where it had once been his fate to sit; and extending himself on the seat endeavoured to snatch a moment's repose. It towered up high above the level of the pass, thousands of feet, still, shining, and white, and below, thousands of feet below, was a floor of little woolly clouds.
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