But it was hopelessly hard to put. My foster mother, Janine, wasn’t much fatter. She attacked me with a carving-knife, and, when I had disarmed her, the jade bit off a couple of fingers from my left hand. Satisfied, as he thought, that he had nothing to apprehend, the boy resumed his task, chanting, as he plied his knife with redoubled assiduity, the following—not inappropriate strains:— THE NEWGATE STONE. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again.
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