A vague desire to justify himself ruffled her father. "To-morrow it will be mine. She opened the door to him herself. 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. Thank goodness you’ll understand. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen.
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