It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. There’s nothing happened at all!” She didn’t mean, he concluded, to give him any more trouble ever, and he was free to begin a fresh chromatic novel—he had just finished the Blue Lagoon, which he thought very beautiful and tender and absolutely irrelevant to Morningside Park—or work in peace at his microtome without bothering about her in the least. His eyes glowed beneath the glasses and his blue buttondown shirt was reflected in the lenses. Then she put more coal on, piled it over the ashes, and stood once more upright. The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. "Dying, Sir Rowland.
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