"Thanks to you," said the doctor. He showed me a black mark under his ear, where the noose would be tied. Do you indeed remember? The smell of decay and cheap methylated spirit!. A corner could hold the promise of a shelf of dainty crystals, volcanic ices of rainbow colors, or figurines of saints sculpted from horn and bone reenacting their martyrdoms on delicate miniature wooden stages. There is no future for me here. It’s no good hiding it any more.
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