Sebastian was gone and another doctor came to bleed her, to rid her of the black humors that were causing the plague. Perhaps some one had kissed the brow that was now so cadaverous, rubbed that sunken cheek with loving fingers, held that stringy neck with passionately living hands. “Come,” he said, “this is capital, capital. All concerned in the dark transaction must have perished. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. He could not kiss Ruth because the acquired conscience—struggling on its way to limbo—made the idea repellant.
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