Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. ’ ‘Lord, yes,’ agreed Gerald, in mock horror.
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