Gathering up the little courage he had left,
trying desperately to summon exactly the right note of sharp and yet almost
casual irritability, he said: "And you might as well stop that. But instead
of weeping with exalted grief as she should have done when Misery expired
giving birth to the boy whom Ian and Geoffrey would presumably raise together,
she was mad as hell. Although the curtains guarding the bow windows were
only half-drawn, affording a lovely view of the mountains, the room seemed too
dark - because its colors were too dark, he thought. but life was so fucking
untidy - what could you say for an existence where some of the most crucial
conversations of your life took place when you needed to take a shit, or
something?
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