And for me there is only one treasure-house. I wonder, Ann Veronica, if, when our time comes, we shall be any wiser?” Ann Veronica watched a water-beetle fussing across the green depths. 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. She thought of how tired she was, how exhausted, how hungry. “It was very tiring. “They are full of the usual foolish stories.
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