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The conformist, p.34
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       The Conformist, p.34

           Alberto Moravia

  And then, resigned, his mouth in the grass, he waited for the plane to return. The car with its open door was silent, and he had time to understand with a sharp sorrow that no one would get out. Finally the plane was on top of him, trailing after it, as it distanced itself in the burning sky, silence and the night.



  Alberto Moravia, The Conformist



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