Now then," he added more calmly, "I am ready to die. Fresh ground, no chicory, and all the rest of it. ’ ‘Let’s. ” She glared at Sebastian over the drawing table where she was sketching in chalk, then over at the fifteen year old boy who was asleep in a disheveled pile of rushes in the corner. It was bleeding again. She felt her chest trying to float up, but the blessed undertow, the dreaded reason why she was warned to never bathe in the ocean, sucked her feet down, putting the decision where it belonged, into the hands of God.
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