If you were a poet in need of rhymes, you had only to turn to a certain page. Spiders came out of their hiding places to commune in windows, industriously spinning their own designs over the stained glass. And for my part, if I were inclined to exercise my benevolence at all, it should be in favour of some more deserving object than that whining, hypocritical Magdalene. Vorsack rose from the table and departed for the bathroom, mumbling something about a Tylenol.
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