"The Cask of Amontillado"
by Edgar Allan Poe

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      It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognising as that of the noble Fortunato. The voice said -

      "Ha! ha! ha! - he! he! - a very good joke indeed - an excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at the palazzo - he! he! he! - over our wine - he! he! he!"

 

      "The Amontillado!"

      "He! he! he! - he! he! he! - yes, the Amontillado. But is it not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the palazzo, the Lady Fortunato and the rest? Let us be gone."

      "Yes, let us be gone."

      "For the love of God, Montressor!"

      "Yes," I said, "for the love of God!"

      But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I grew impatient. I called aloud -

 
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