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Snippet
It
was
night
again.
The
Waystone
Inn
lay
in
silence,
and
it
was
a
silence
of
three
parts.
The
most
obvious
part
was
a
hollow,
echoing
quiet,
made
by
things
that
were
lacking.
If
there
had
been
a
wind
it
would
have
sighed
through
the
trees,
set
the
inn's
sign
creaking
on
its
hooks,
and
brushed
the
silence
down
the
road
like
trailing
autumn
leaves.
If
there
had
been
a
crowd,
even
a
handful
of
men
inside
the
inn,
they
would
have
filled
the
silence
with
conversation
and
laughter,
the
clatter
and
clamor
one
expects
from
a
drinking
house
during
the
dark
hours
of
night.
If
there
had
been
music...
but
no,
of
course
there
was
no
music.
In
fact
there
were
none
of
these
things,
and
so
the
silence
remained.
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