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Wood. ‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. I wanted something alive. 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. Her eyes quizzed the major. The couple reappeared from behind the curtains, both visibly shaken. She slid her cheek down the tweed sleeve of his coat.
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