“Don’t!” cried Ann Veronica, struggling faintly, and he released her. What a heat that news had wrought. Sebastian drank deeply and quickly of her blood. He had been reading Belfort Bax, and declared himself a convert. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. Behind the poet came Sir James Thornhill. ‘Say it. It was now getting dusk, and he could only imperfectly distinguish the features and figure of the stranger.
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