Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. He seemed inexorable, and inscrutable as fate itself. Besides, the sun had gone in and it looked like rain. I’ve—dreads. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. ‘Then it is that you will have pity? Here we have come, we poor, for aid.
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