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So, pressing his fist against his bent brow, he ran to the

meadows, where, below, the ponds glittered, and took his stand

above the one with marshy banks; in its greenish depths he buried

his greedy gaze and drew into his breast with joy the swampy

odours, and opened his lips to them; for suicide, like all wild

passions, springs from the imagination: in the giddy whirling of

his brain he felt an unspeakable longing to drown himself in the

swamp.