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walls. The shelves of one stall he
had not seen before, with a banner proclaiming, in twisting
Syndainin-native, `Parkry Circumcision' were lined with what
appeared to be living mantis heads about the size of televisions;
he saw a prospective customer front up to the stall, undo the
front of his trousers and move up to one of the heads. Genesis
passed the stall with the sound of clacking jaws and a shrill
scream ringing in his ears. There was a plump eunuch dressed in
silks and holding a wicked-looking scimitar, standing outside a
round stone door. He looked puzzled, and was muttering, `Duh,
open... sarsparilla? Open, uh... septuagenarian? Saddlesoap?'
Further down what was marked at various points as `Turdburglar
Lane', the stonework grew more convoluted, joining overhead to
form archways from which dangled vines and the occasional Ylurian
cocoon, one of which had a still-living person inside, wet
outlines softened by the glistening translucent fibers. He could
hear faint moans of pain coming
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