Instead, God had sent her Sebastianus, a man who had sold his soul to the Devil to gain eternal life, or perhaps he was even the Devil himself. He went by another name then,—Rykhart Scherprechter I think he called himself. Dim souls flitted about her, not only speaking but it would seem even thinking in undertones. Built and paved with stone, without beds, or any other sort of protection from the cold, this dreadful hole, accounted the most dark and dismal in the prison, was made the receptacle of such miserable wretches as could not pay the customary fees. But her temper almost flared again when the sergeant spoke. Her eyes flashed. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death.
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