"Take my advice, mister—" He stopped. To devise words of advice was going to tax his ability to the utmost. When would he learn not to plunge into the labyrinths of an opinion when he had not the slightest idea of how he was to emerge? His embarrassment was if possible increased by the expression of strained attention on Wylie's face, clamped there by the promise of advice.
"Yes, sergeant," said Wylie, and held his breath.
—Samuel Beckett, Murphy, chapter 4.
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