His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. The vault, in which Sir Rowland found himself, resembled in some measure the cabin of a ship. Twenty-one, twenty-two. The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. "Where to, master?" asked Ben, touching his woollen cap. I’ll wait my whole life!” He cried. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation.
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