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. All that confidence, born of irony, disappeared; and fear laid hold of him. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Yet in some hidden corner was a vein of sentiment, of which for the first time in his later life he was now unexpectedly aware. He tried to raise an outcry, but his throat was again forcibly griped by Rowland. But Darrell averted his head.
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