‘Sir?’ enquired the lad. 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. Wood again made his appearance in a more composed frame of mind, and, at his daughter's earnest solicitation, was induced to partake of some refreshment. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. It worked.
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