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A little tap at the window, as though some missile had struck it, followed by a plentiful, falling sound, as light, though, as if a shower of sand were being sprinkled from a window overhead; then the fall spread, took on an order, a rhythm, became liquid, loud, drumming, musical, innumerable, universal. It was the rain.
 Marcel ProustSwann's Way (1913). copy citation

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1913
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English
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Translated by C. K. Scott Moncrieff
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