The War of the Wenuses by E. V. (Edward Verrall) Lucas;C. L. Graves
page 26 of 49 (53%)
page 26 of 49 (53%)
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"Let me in!" he shouted. "I'm the only man in London besides yourself that hasn't been pulped by the Mash-Glance." He then began to jabber lines from the classics, and examples from the Latin grammar. A sudden thought occurred to me. Perhaps he might translate the observation of the Wenus. Should I use him as an interpreter? But a moment's reflection served to convince me of the danger of such a plan. The Professor, already exacerbated by the study of the humanities, was in a state of acute erethism. I thought of the curate, and, maddened by the recollection of all I had suffered, drew the bread-knife from my waist-belt, and shouting, "Go to join your dead languages!" stabbed him up to the maker's name in the semi-lunar ganglion. His head drooped, and he expired. I stood petrified, staring at his glazing eyes; then, turning to make for the scullery, was confronted by the catastrophic apparition of the tallest Wenus gazing at me with reproachful eyes and extended tentacles. Disgust at my cruel act and horror at my extraordinary habiliments were written all too plainly in her seraphic lineaments. At least, so I thought. But it turned out to be otherwise; for the Wenus produced from behind her superlatively radiant form a lump of slate which she had extracted from the coal-box. "Decepti estis, O Puteoli!" she said. "I beg your pardon," I replied; "but I fail to grasp your meaning." |
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