Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. While he was meditating flight in this way, and tossing about on the straw, he chanced upon an old broken and rusty fork. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. Her face scarcely reflected his enthusiasm. The imbecile. Or else I would have finished him.
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