Alone in the hissing laboratory of his wishes, Mr Pugh minces among bad vats and jeroboams, spinneys of murdering herbs, and prepares to compound for Mrs Pugh a venomous porridge hitherto unknown to toxicologists which will scald and viper through her 'til her ears fall off like figs, her toes grow big and black as balloons, and steam comes screaming out of her navel.
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