“You are my friend,” she said, “if any one is. She thought of Sebastian who often returned from the charnel house that the outside world had become. Only the next of kin. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. It makes no difference. There was only one clean spot in the picture—the ship's wash (all white) that fluttered on a line stretched between the two masts.
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