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He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. Goodbye. “These are the sort of things that aren’t supposed to happen. A little darling? Lord in heaven, he had taken leave of his senses. ’ There was a chuckle in his voice. He woke up with a start and the alarm clock read 4:46 P. The City worried him a good deal, and what energy he had left over he spent partly in golf, a game he treated very seriously, and partly in the practices of microscopic petrography.
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