But don’t think your heroic milice will save you. 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. One went in for painting, kept straight and married old Ferringhall a week or so ago—the Lord help her. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh.
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