On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Teas he contributed to the commissariat of Ann Veronica’s campaign—quite a number of teas. But what can we do? Here am I, fixed to respectability and this laboratory; you’re living at home. Before he could recover from the stunning effects of the blow, Wood possessed himself of the child: and, untying the noose which had been slipped round its throat, had the satisfaction of hearing it cry lustily.
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