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The magistrate Schreiber had an awful tic and a wren on the fret of his brow; and a lasso Iliad he kept on a leash made of moles’ hair and hemp. He tight-fistedly free-associated, having little time for grunting or circuitous conversions, and wore his hat in disrespect to good manners. He recollected things that didn’t exist, and made noises that appeared to emanate from the cup of his bowel. He cleared his throat at will, recalling his disgust for Schopenhauer, Kant and Hegel, and Goethe, whom he abhorred with fervour. He disliked Persian rugs, African art and pointy things, and saw no utility in having antiquities that encouraged clutter and dust. He preferred walking to brougham and horse, and wore unfashionable shoes, brown Oxford’s with pinpricks in the wingtips. He was allergic to cigar smoke, mints, especially humbugs, and liquorice allsorts, the kind that stuck together in droves. He wrote a book on lycanthropy and vermin, and a monogram on structural irregularities in jawbones. One night after dinner, a pork roast with potatoes, sweet corn and Crème Brule, he fell asleep on his couch never to awake.
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