F. The Bitchster strikes again. Gerald frowned. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain. "Where are the boys?" "In the hall. If I am to die in the attempt, then so be it. I am a man—of a sort of experience. I'll bet you haven't given her a bucket of paint in three years.
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