That, in this pilgrimage of ſeventy years, / O'er rocks of perils, and through vales of tears, / Deſtin'd to march, our doubtful ſteps we tend, / Tir'd with the toil, yet fearful of its end: …
A satanist is just another whifty fundamentalist.
The stone clanged metallically as it dropped into the bucket.
“You got a name, Friendo?” The Howler was crouched in the corner of his cell furthest from me. He was tensed and spidered, and I was certain he would leap for the opposite corner if I tried to get any nearer to him.
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