But if not himself, there would be another soon enough. He was Julian five years younger, the spitting image. Jiggle-joggle, jiggle-joggle…! For each pause she was grateful. She loves you too well for that. We've got to make him take up the harp of life and go twanging it again. One could go to him and tell him one loved him. You were dying and your baby along with you. The poor fellow's half smothered. His mind was filled briefly with psychic images of a charnel house that danced like a spider in his head.
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