Thus it was that his being, gradually unfolding, took its mould from the cathedral – living there – sleeping there – scarcely ever going out of it – receiving every hour its mysterious impress – he came at length to resemble it, to be fashioned like it, to make an integral part of it. He might almost be said to have taken its form, as the snail takes that of its shell. It was his dwelling place – his hole – his envelope. There existed between the old church himself an instinctive sympathy so profound – so many affinities, magnetic and material – that he in some sort adhered to it, like the tortoise to its shell.
Victor Hugo, “The Hunchback of Notre Dame”
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