Presently she saw Spurlock on the way to the lagoon. The candles—for McClintock never used oil in his dining room—were burning low in the sconces. She screamed as she saw that their throats had been ripped out and their dead eyes bulged with horror as their heads lolled from mere strings of sinew and flesh. I am tired, and I want to be alone. Except that this music we have been swimming in is divine.
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