Burn your palette and your easel. Then Capes shifted his eyes to her microscope and the little trays of unmounted sections beside it. It’s a tremendous blow, of course—but it doesn’t kill me. By and by—as the paroxysm subsided and he became motionless—she stole back to the bungalow to wait. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. “Hey, Mike.
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