At that moment the boss noticed that a fly had fallen into his broad inkpot, and was trying feebly but desperately to clamber out again. ... The boss took up a pen, picked the fly out of the ink, and shook it on to a piece of blotting-paper. ... Then there was a pause, while the fly, seeming to stand on the tips of its toes, tried to expand first one wing and then the other. ... He plunged his pen back into the ink, leaned his thick wrist on the blotting-paper, and as the fly tried its wings down came a great heavy blot. ... But the fly had again finished its laborious task, and the boss had just time to refill his pen, to shake fair and square on the new-cleaned body yet another dark drop. ... He leaned over the fly and said to it tenderly, "You artful little b. ... The last blot fell on the soaked blotting-paper, and the draggled fly lay in it and did not stir. ... The fly was dead.
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