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14.09.2026, 14:08
But in this muteness, there was neither peace nor resignation. Yuriko felt it just as distinctly as the dry, sour smell of his body — it was a ringing, dull, white-hot rage. But he wasn’t angry at the girls. This rage was directed inward, at himself. It was devouring him like acid. He was sitting in front of the students to whom he had personally handed out cyanide and clay grenades… And then the American orderlies came, injected him with morphine, sewed up his torn chest
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