Then suddenly he seized a new preparation bottle that stood upon his table and contained the better part of a week’s work—a displayed dissection of a snail, beautifully done—and hurled it across the room, to smash resoundingly upon the cemented floor under the bookcase; then, without either haste or pause, he swept his arm along a shelf of re-agents and sent them to mingle with the debris on the floor. There, that sounds frightfully involved, doesn’t it, but perhaps you can make out what I mean. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. “I’m not going to kill you, John. " He paused, and not without malice. Come in! Come in, do. Are you already thinking about college?\" Michelle nodded yes as they waited for a car to pass before crossing the street.
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