Days later, Sebastian found her by the lake, sobbing. It had ceased to beat. Too many. “There is this absurd craving for Mr. Lucy crouched by the side of the grave, her head in her hands, rocking back and forth. He was not addicted to monologue, and the only audible comment he permitted himself at first upon a universe that was evidently anything but satisfactory to him that afternoon, was one compact and entirely unassigned “Damn!” The word must have had some gratifying quality, because he repeated it. And then the fetters, which were still upon his legs:—how was he to get rid of them? Tired and dispirited, he still wandered on.
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