Robbed of their prey, the fury of the mob became ungovernable. “Why would she do that? Why does she care? That’s a waste of her time. "Will you write," asked the doctor, "and tell me how you are getting along?" "Oh, yes!" "The last advice I can give you is this: excite his imagination; get him started with his writing. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. Her place was not filled; she had been simply noted as absent, and she did a comforting day of admirable dissection upon the tortoise. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation.
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