‘You are jealous!’ ‘Yes,’ he agreed simply. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. She was tired, hungry—and thus somewhat impatient for the food Mrs Ibstock might bring—and downcast. She was breathing hard, dragging for air, half in fright and half because the sudden effort had used up what little air she had managed to draw so briefly. But, say we're friends.
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