It fell to the ground and smoked ominously. It was very much like a real house, with one central stalagmite that looked like a column and a waterfall that served when she wanted to bathe. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. The old woman told him she had no such article to dispose of, but recommended him to a neighbouring blacksmith. Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations.
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