She reflected upon that with a thrill of terror that was also, somehow, in some faint remote way, gleeful. Marvel, then, took two iron weights, each of a hundred pounds, and placed them in the press. Your aunt liked the pheasant. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands.
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