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Summary
Childermass laughs at that, a rough, bitter sound. Segundus couldn’t help him - wouldn’t help him, he corrects himself - even if he knew the nature of what ailed him. The moon hangs high in the sky, tonight, shining and pearlescent like the inside of a shell; the wind howls across the moors outside Starecross, tugging at Childermass’ belly. It is, all of it, conspiring against him, conspiring to tear him apart and force him to terrorise the good people who live in this place.
