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Back at the nineteenth,
in a vile mood, he delivered his bitter tale of woe.
"Nothing could stop me winning. I had a putt of about eleven inches, hardly
more than a tap-in, to clinch it. The green was dead flat, perfectly true, a
real billiard table. Not a breath of wind.
"My ball was heading for the cup, on rails. Then a raven swooped down,
snatched it up, and circled the flag stick, twice. The raven then passed the
ball to a vulture, which flapped over to Paradise Brook, opened its talons and
.........splash. End of story."
St. Peter sighed deeply and vowed, "Last time I play St.Francis of Assisi."