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 body, that he must be careful not to fall, that he was infinitely weak. Some lighted window or other, an avenue, a dark field. “R-r-r-r.” The horse trotted along, moving its legs stiffly and unnaturally, as if it had already been dead for a long time.

Prokop cast a surreptitious glance at his fellow-traveller. He was an old man with a scarf wrapped round his neck. All the time he was chewing something, rolling it about in his mouth and periodically spitting. And then Prokop remembered that he had seen this face somewhere before. It was the loathsome face from the dream, which ground its rotten teeth until they crumbled and then spat them out in fragments. It was wonderful and horrible.

“R-r-r-r-r-r.” There was a turn in the road, they climbed up a hill and then descended again. Somebody’s estate,—the barking of a dog,—a man passing along the road and wishing them good-night. The houses increased in number; they were reaching the top of the hill. The post-wagon swung round, another high “R-r-r-r-r” and it suddenly drew up.

“This is where Dr. Thomas lives,” said the postman.

Prokop wished to say something but was unable to do so. He wanted to let go of the railing, but could not. His fingers were frozen.

“Well, here we are,” said the postman again. Once more he called out, and Prokop slipped down from the coach-box, trembling with his whole; body. As if performing a remembered action, he opened the gate and rang at the door. Inside there was to be heard a fierce barking and a young voice called