These people, and the shadows around the campfire, and the dark bales, and the distant lightning flashing every moment in the distance - all now looked desolate and frightening to him. To the left, as if someone had struck a match against the sky, a pale phosphorescent strip flashed and went out. There was a sound of someone walking on an iron roof somewhere very far away. He was probably walking barefoot, because the iron made a dull rumble.
“It’s all around!” cried Kiriukha.
The Steppe, Anton Chekhov.
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