Almost worthy of your own fertile imagination. Sanguine they were not. A pity, en effet, that she dare not truly desire him to rescue her. “Don’t we all rather humbug about the coarseness? All we women, I mean,” said she. 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.
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