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On a stormy night, when the wind howled in the chimney, and the rain beat against the casement with such violence, that I thought the house could not stand that night, I sat alone in my chamber, reading by a feeble lamp. The fire had been punctual in furnishing me with a melancholy blaze; the loud clock below struck one; the watcher, who had been dozing in the passage, started at each stroke, and, as if recollecting that his duty called him to vigilance, lifted up his voice in a monotonous hymn to the mercy of heaven for those who sleep secure. The house, too, seemed to partake of the general unrest; the doors creaked, the stairs groaned, and every thing spoke of motion and uneasiness rather than rest.