“Miserable bounder,” he murmured. It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. Wood, I command you not to stir," vociferated the carpenter's better-half; "recollect you'll be answerable to me. “It was perhaps my fault. Remember, in your story—look at it, scattered everywhere!—that line? We arrive at true happiness only through labyrinths of misery. Buck up.
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