One’s got to be a better man than one’s father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or nothing. She held it by the neck and broke the end of the bottle on the hard dirt. Clarice rubbed her belly, singing songs to the unborn baby. I have established a fine trade. You cannot depart hence. And it is not at all his affair. Alcohol— would you believe it?—steadies his nerves and keens his brain: which is against the laws of gravitation, you might say. A black-garbed young lad leapt out and let down the steps. It’s gone.
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