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And, alone in the dim emptiness of the sleeping forecasde he appeared bigger,
colossal, very old; old as Father time himself, who should have come there
into this place as quiet as a sepulchre to contemplate with patient eyes the
short victory of sleep, the consoler. Yet he was only a child of time, a
lonely relic of a devoured and forgotten generation…
— JOSEPH CONRAD, The Nigger of the Narcissus