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. “I cannot part with you. "Now's your time," cried Blueskin, struggling desperately with his assailants and inflicting severe cuts with his knife. Very well, I give up. She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. Why should she? she asked rebelliously.
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