“I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Unless—’ Something clicked in his mind and he stared at his friend without seeing him. Wood was not particularly fortunate in his own matrimonial connections. Instead, he was bowing to her greataunt. He returned figuratively to his bed—the bed he had made for himself and in which he must for ever lie. Only he hated the words he uttered, hated the blunt honesty which forced them from his lips. Including the wings, it presented a frontage of five hundred and forty feet.
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