He beheld a tall gaunt man, his brown face corrugated like a winter's road, grim, stony. She found herself anxious to read more of him, and the next Wednesday she went to the British Museum and hunted first among the half-crown magazines for his essays and then through various scientific quarterlies for his research papers. “There is my aunt,” she said. She did not see Sebastian turn towards the boy and his family, but every hair on the back of her neck stood up rigidly. It’s the public entrance. Looking for something, or someone, probably.
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