’ I don’t know what you’d call it —a sort of witchery, almost suggestiveness. He looked up to see an ancient coach making its ponderous way down the street. 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. . Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet.
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