“They whirled past the dark trees, as feathers would be swept before a hurricane. Houses, gates, churches, hay-stacks, objects of every kind they shot by, with a velocity and noise like roaring waters suddenly let loose. Still the noise of pursuit grew louder, and still my uncle could hear the young lady wildly screaming, "Faster! Faster!"” KindStillsWould BePastYoungHouseWaterChurchDarkTreeObjectsGrewShotsPursuitNoiseFasterGatesUnclesFeathersHurricanesSpookyRoaringVelocityYoung LadiesHayDark Trees Book:The posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club Source: The posthumous papers of the Pickwick Club