The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. He poured a pinch of tobacco into his palm and sniffed. Not a breath was drawn. But he was destined to have every tide of feeling awakened—every wound opened. From this perturbed state he was roused by thoughts of his mother, and fancying he heard her gentle voice urging him on to fresh exertion, he started up. Things seem to come rather easily. Eating him while he was at the end of a heroin binge left her sleepy and dazed.
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