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The door of the compartment was open and I could see the corridor window, where the wires-- six thin black wires-- were doing their best to slant up, to ascend skyward, despite the lightning blows dealt them by one telegraph pole after another; but just as all six, in a triumphant swoop of pathetic elation, were about to reach the top of the window, a particularly vicious blow would bring them down, as low as they had ever been, and they would have to start all over again."

Nabokov. "Speak, Memory"

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