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. “But your sister,” he said. It was a pity he didn't break his neck, for he was hanged within the year. "It's an odd-shaped one," rejoined Kneebone, examining it attentively. Diane Vorsack clicked her tongue in a “tsk”.
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