He began to search among the infinite series of impressions which time had laid down, leaf upon leaf, fold upon fold softly, incessantly upon his brain; among scents, sounds; voices, harsh, hollow, sweet; and lights passing, and brooms tapping; and the wash and hush of the sea.
Source:(The Hogarth Press, ed. 1927), Part III. The Lighthouse, Chapter 4, Page 260
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