It was nearly midnight when a man hesitatingly walked up to the iron gateway of St. Jean's burying-ground, in Croix Blanche Street.
As midnight boomed, he saw a spectre cross the grounds under the yews and cypresses, and, approaching the grating, turn a key harshly in the gatelock to show that, if he were a ghost and had the leave to quit his grave, he also had that to go beyond the cemetery altogether.
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