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Sometimes, he’s faced with the disturbing notion that Hannibal has turned him into an elaborate mouth-piece: he senses it, Hannibal pouring from his mouth like the irrevocable spill of ink from a tipped over jar, like gouts of thick blood from a slashed artery, like God has marked him, chosen him for a prophet, beams of light vomiting out of his burning throat.
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Or, Will dreams of Hannibal’s fingers inside his mouth and can’t think of much else.