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Roaring like a wounded animal, Morgan got hold of the harp and also wrecked it versus the edge of the table, ruining. He grabbed the books, tore them open, scraps of paper flying all over. Tossing every little thing on the table, fragments of broken glass spread on the ground, the breast was tossed versus the wall. He frantically smashed the board, tossing the pieces into the furnace, their expressionless faces thawing in popular fire like himself. He tore the sheets off the bed, shredding them with just his bare hands.
Feeling worn out and worn down. Finding a chair pushing the floor, he fell to the floor, lying in a load, stunned in dead dreams.
A sticky tongue was licking his cheek. Morgan opened his eyes. Clear eyes were checking out him questioningly. The nose is scrubing versus his arm.
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