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The sea carried up a sick, fiery breath. It seemed to me as if
the sky split open from one end to the other and rain down fire. My whole being tensed and I squeezed my hand around the revolver.
The trigger gave; I felt the smooth underside of the butt; and there, in that noise, sharp and deafening at the same time,
is where it all started. I shook off the sweat and sun. I knew that I had shattered the harmony of the day, the exceptional
silence of a beach where I’d been happy. Then I fired four more times at the motionless body where the bullets lodged
without leaving a trace. And it was like knocking four quick times on the door of unhappiness.
-L’étranger, Albert Camus
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