The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. "What poet was that?" "Stevenson. The next minute, I contrived, without either of 'em perceiving me, to convey it into my own pocket. Why didn’t I die? Why does God hate me so? Why does He not want me? I didn’t die because I’m weak, because I am cursed! I hate this poisoned world! But most of all. Besides, those things are deadly.
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