Knew something was up. Saturday mornings at the Beck house were routine, coffee, newspaper, bagels, and Looney Toons in no particular order. A scene now ensued, highly characteristic of the age, and the occasion. The terrific mental tension of the past few months —that had held his bodily nourishment in a kind of strangulation—became as a dream; and now his vitals responded rapidly to food and air. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. By and by he ventured to peer into this window.
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