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"TAKE A PURKINJE'S DIGESTIVE PILL."
A vast and desolating braying began. "If you love Swagger Literature,
put your telephone on to Bruggles, the Greatest Author of all Time. The
Greatest Thinker of all Time. Teaches you Morals up to your Scalp! The
very image of Socrates, except the back of his head, which is like
Shakspeare. He has six toes, dresses in red, and never cleans his teeth.
Hear HIM!"
Denton's voice became audible in a gap in the uproar. "I never ought to
have married you," he was saying. "I have wasted your money, ruined you,
brought you to misery. I am a scoundrel.... Oh, this accursed world!"
She tried to speak, and for some moments could not. She grasped his
hand. "No," she said at last.
A half-formed desire suddenly became determination. She stood up. "Will
you come?"
He rose also. "We need not go there yet."
"Not that. But I want you to come to the flying stages--where we met.
You know? The little seat."
He hesitated. "Can you?" he said, doubtfully.
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