225 “Sebastianus. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. His eyes looked a little bloodshot to her; his face had lost something of its ruddy freshness. It was a haunted place. Wood. Oh, God!” Rhea sniffed the air through two gaping nostrils that had eroded through her onion skin flesh. Michelle waved to her, then flitted over to where she was sitting. The door to the library burst open.
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