The phone did not ring. Jim is up to the neck in Mahatmas and Theosophy and Higher Thought and rot—writes letters worse than Alice. She had killed him. ‘You are dead, you,’ he yelled back, leaping into the seat of the final pew. Her bald head had swollen on her shoulders, puffy with fresh blood that ringed her mouth. And he who opposes me in it shall feel the weight of my hand.
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