Nor was this impression removed as he stole a glance at Mrs. 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. Left to himself, he took a survey of the room, and his heart leaped as he beheld over the, chimney-piece, a portrait of himself. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. ‘I find you excessively rude. He wondered if these abnormal mental activities presaged illness.
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