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Abortion “I don’t care if you’re 24 hours pregnant. I don’t care if you’re 24 weeks pregnant. I don’t care. If you kill that young’un, it is murder.”

Any of the millions of folks who’ve read and enjoyed it can well understand why it would resonate with, say, a precocious, science-minded young’un: They get the simultaneous benefits of endless jokes, fictional maps of the cosmos, reflections on what it means to be a living being in a vast universe, and a convenient means through which to laugh at the idiots who’ve not so much run our world as they have ruined it.

“I think it’s more about a young’un not really having an appreciation for murals.”

“He used to get so mad when I kissed all over him. And his mother … any time she called me for my nephew, I was there, ever since he was a young’un. I will be missing my man, my man.”

I say we went over, but I was pushed over by Pumblechook, exactly as if I had that moment picked a pocket or fired a rick; indeed, it was the general impression in Court that I had been taken red-handed; for, as Pumblechook shoved me before him through the crowd, I heard some people say, “What’s he done?” and others, “He’s a young ’un, too, but looks bad, don’t he?”