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. “This ain’t no place for you. The boy was all conscience, and he suffered through this conscience to such lengths that the law would be impotent to add anything. He continued his ditty, in spite of the angry glances of his leader. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. "Mother! dear mother!" cried Jack, folding her to his breast.
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