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. Take, if you please, your own pistol. You take them. She felt a new warmth in her blood, a strange sense of elation crept over her. And Suzanne, even that she has behaved to me not at all like a mother, would also not have said. “He means nothing!” She whispered loudly. We LIKED each other well enough. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping.
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