Even the stars were strangers. A piece of old blanket was fastened across her shoulders, and she had no other clothing except a petticoat. “You are very kind,” she said hesitatingly, “but I don’t remember—I don’t think that I know you, do I?” “I am afraid that you do not,” he admitted, with a smile which he meant to be encouraging. Sebastian dug through the viscous layers of foul-smelling clay with a shovel, each successive insertion creating an obscene sucking noise that ate at her sanity. The Master of the Mint IV.
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