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. All the events of the previous day rushed to his recollection; and though he had been unintentionally the cause of his mother's death, he reproached himself as severely as if he had been her actual murderer. “It’s just that he doesn’t seem like your type. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. Think of those days in Paris. “Why, what is the matter with you? What do you mean?” Annabel laughed scornfully.
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