'Ook!' Duddits said. 'Duds, I'm so sorry,' Henry said. Not the plop of a turd dropping — at least Jonesy didn't think so. The plowman leaned in the window and wrinkled his nose at the lingering aroma of sulfur and ethyl alcohol.
Beaver Clarendon was still standing there, frosted with swirling snow and screaming. He looked up suddenly, Jonesy's eyes widening in the blowing snow. But there was only Duddits, rocking back and forth in his crank-up hospital bed, cheeks wet with tears. The fingers of the stain spreading toward Freddy were red.
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