VIII
I glanced downwards. We had now risen again to a considerable height. We were flying over some provincial town I did not know, situated on the side of a wide slope. Churches rose up high among the dark mass of wooden roofs and orchards; a long bridge stood out black at the bend of a river; everything was hushed, buried in slumber. The very crosses and cupolas seemed to gleam with a silent brilliance; silently stood the tall posts of the wells beside the round tops of the willows; silently the straight whitish road darted arrow-like into one end of the town, and silently it ran out again at the opposite end on to the dark waste of monotonous fields.
'What town is this?' I asked.
'X . . .'
'X . . . in Y . . . province?'
'Yes.'
'I 'm a long distance indeed from home!'
'Distance is not for us.'
'Really?' I was fired by a sudden recklessness. 'Then take me to South America!
'To America I cannot. It's daylight there by now.'
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