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. “Look at me. She got up, drew up her blind, and stared out of window at a dawn-cold vision of chimneys for a time, and then went and sat on the edge of her bed. CHAPTER XXIV Spurlock's novel was a tale of regeneration. , like to forget all about it—even their names. It was also cold, and dark, for there had been no time to light the lantern.
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