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Every cranny of his being was flooded with overmastering light and the faint sound of footsteps marking sinister time to his music, drew closer, closer. Shaking off an insane desire to join his voice in the immortal choiring of the Cherubim, Pobloff dashed into the passionate storm-scream of the music, and like a pack of phantom bloodhounds the footsteps pressed him in the race.
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