Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. Her husband had caught her leaning over a precipice into the ruins of the oubliette, and had punished her by flogging her back with a switch. He took about five minutes. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. “Oh! please don’t lose yourself in a wilderness of secondary considerations,” she said. That was the inconvenience of it; her head was swimming. And don't neglect my instructions this time.
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