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. Ruth will be a gold mine for a man of your peculiar bent. Egad! I shall make a good thing of it. ‘Suppose you don’t know what sort of proof she was after?’ he asked. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat.
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