Now a white-backed rams its head down the wildebeest’s throat and yanks out an eight-inch length of trachea, ribbed like a vacuum hose.
“Uncle Barnaby was always father and mother to me,” Benson broke in; then after a pause his mind flew off at a tangent. “Is old Hannah all right—in the will, I mean?”
The tribual lisping of the Ephraimites.
“Don't be euphemistic. I′m getting drunk. I intend to get drunker. My sciatica′s giving me Larry Dooley. From now on I′ll pour my own, thank you very much.″
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