“Sir John is not at all that sort. Here, Peter," he added to a curly-headed lad, who was playing on one of the grassy tombs, "ask your father to step this way. He would never be able to compose upon it, but it would serve to produce the finished work. Black blood and white bone flew into the corners of the crypt, slathering the dead faces of the corpses left piled in the corner. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag.
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