Mr. McGuire finally presented himself to me for his execution as I woke, and strangling him was as far as I went.  Had I consumed his blood, I’m certain I’d be reeking of bubble and squeak while staggering about Collins Hall like the Eel on Twelfth Night.

Overall, however, despite the impropriety of Young Loomis delivering the Irish Irritant to me as I slept, there was an elegant convenience to the matter, and snapping the reprobate’s neck was singular delight.



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