It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. “Oh, I am lonely,” she moaned. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. "The ceiling is breaking! the floor is opening! he is coming to me!" cried the unhappy woman. Lord help him! he's the very image of his father.
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