He never retires to rest till daybreak—if at all. 1703. Meantime, as the doctor was splitting his breakfast orange, he heard a commotion in his office, two rooms removed: volleys of pidgin English, one voice in protest, the other dominant. “I hope,” Annabel answered lazily, “that you have succeeded. It was as if she had come upon the beautiful marble façade of a fairy palace, was invited to enter, and behind the door—nothing. She quickly strangled him with the piano wire as he looked at her, his lips open as if to scream, but his larynx had been intentionally sliced. He wanted to become a millionaire. If not, keep up your spirits. He guided himself between her legs. “Looooo-ceeeeee!!” He yelled, sounding like Desi Arnaz. He’s dead.
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