He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. Though not much passed the middle term of life, he seemed prematurely stricken with old age. Hill was seated. The stretch of red dirt disappeared into a stretch of trees like Van Gogh’s painting.
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