Psychoanalysis has sprung many surprises on us, performed more than one volte face before our indignant eyes.
Thy smoking altar shall be fat with food / Of incense and the grateful steam of blood; / Burnt-offerings morn and evening shall be thine, / And fires eternal in thy temple shine.
Here the women perked up their ears; and were all silent attention.
There shouldn't be more than two dozen Christmas cards left to write.
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