Kneebone's cheeks glowed with rage, and he set down the wine untasted, while Blueskin resumed his song. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. For hours he seemed to have pleasant dreams of open skies and airplanes, but then the dreams would disintegrate into fleshy charnel house nightmares where he could hear her calling to him through a fog. "Agreed," responded the Master.
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