And one must—some of it must slip through one’s fingers. "Jump!" cried Ben, in a voice of thunder. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head. Or mad, just as the captain had said so many times. It wasn’t. He read but little, and that chiefly healthy light fiction with chromatic titles, The Red Sword, The Black Helmet, The Purple Robe, also in order “to distract his mind.
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