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A tourist caravan of four pole-chairs jogged along a narrow street. But eventually Spurlock laughed. 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 fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane.
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