A hobbled horse was moving about the courtyard in halting leaps. It was an unknown horse and must have wandered into the yard by mistake. It was already completely light, but still long before sunrise. The sleeping and as if totally deserted city was sunk in the greyish purple coolness of early morning. Lara closed her eyes. God knows to what country remoteness and enchantment she was transported by this distinctive and quite incomparable stamping of shod horse hooves.
From Doctor Zhivago by Boris Pasternak.
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