1 I knew nothing but shadows, and I thought them real.
2 The lamp cast fantastic shadows on the wall and staircase.
3 Noiselessly, and with silver feet, the shadows crept in from the garden.
4 Out of the unreal shadows of the night comes back the real life that we had known.
5 In black fantastic shapes, dumb shadows crawl into the corners of the room and crouch there.
6 Most of the windows were dark, but now and then fantastic shadows were silhouetted against some lamplit blind.
7 The bright dawn flooded the room and swept the fantastic shadows into dusky corners, where they lay shuddering.
8 There were passions in him that would find their terrible outlet, dreams that would make the shadow of their evil real.
9 A faint blush, like the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, came to her cheeks as she glanced at the crowded enthusiastic house.
10 The door opened quietly, and he went in without saying a word to the squat misshapen figure that flattened itself into the shadow as he passed.
11 That had stirred him at the time, and now, as he stood gazing at the shadow of his own loveliness, the full reality of the description flashed across him.
12 After a little while, a black shadow that had been creeping along the dripping wall moved out into the light and came close to him with stealthy footsteps.
13 I loved you because you were marvellous, because you had genius and intellect, because you realized the dreams of great poets and gave shape and substance to the shadows of art.
14 As he passed out, he used to look with wonder at the black confessionals and long to sit in the dim shadow of one of them and listen to men and women whispering through the worn grating the true story of their lives.
15 The coarse brawl, the loathsome den, the crude violence of disordered life, the very vileness of thief and outcast, were more vivid, in their intense actuality of impression, than all the gracious shapes of art, the dreamy shadows of song.
16 On his return he would sit in front of the picture, sometimes loathing it and himself, but filled, at other times, with that pride of individualism that is half the fascination of sin, and smiling with secret pleasure at the misshapen shadow that had to bear the burden that should have been his own.
17 The mere cadence of the sentences, the subtle monotony of their music, so full as it was of complex refrains and movements elaborately repeated, produced in the mind of the lad, as he passed from chapter to chapter, a form of reverie, a malady of dreaming, that made him unconscious of the falling day and creeping shadows.
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