'Slife! you are wonderfully altered. She screamed at Sebastian. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. I wish”— she found she had embarked on a bad sentence—“I wish we needn’t have quarrelled. The dream flowers and is harvested, and we are left by the wayside, having served our singular purpose in the scheme of progress: as the orange is tossed aside when sucked of its ruddy juice.
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