She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. Go easy. I suppose my creed is, ‘I believe rather indistinctly in God the Father Almighty, substratum of the evolutionary process, and, in a vein of vague sentimentality that doesn’t give a datum for anything at all, in Jesus Christ, His Son. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. E.
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