‘I am not a person, Marthe. Her eyes glistened in the darkness—for light was only admitted through a small grated window—like flames, and, as she fixed them on him, their glances seemed to penetrate his very soul. “We are not the sort that goes under,” said Ann Veronica, holding her hands so that the red reflections vanished from her eyes. ‘Never mind that now. ’ ‘You ain’t never,’ gasped Pottiswick. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter.
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