In his ether haze, Wilbur Larch saw the woman point the speculum at him again. ly meant pinching him or punching him, but there was ample evidence that the baby had been bitten, too. At the open tip of the cone was a wad of cotton—to absorb the ether. Larch gave Fuzzy Stone an [336] unmistakable self-righteousness, which he imagined all supporters of the existing law against abortion would feel at home with.
It had been years (for example) since he had seen Candy asleep, or had been the one to wake her; years since he had watched her fall asleep, and had stayed awake to watch her. Wilbur Larch would have told him there was no such thing as playing a _little_ God; when you were willing to play God—at all—you played a lot. He found some guns, but he had no idea how they worked (he felt comforted that the guns were there, however). And sometimes right off the top of my head, he thought.
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