” “It cannot be!” “It is in the grimoires. 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. By the time she was done, the bodies in the bathtub were gathering flies. "I owe you nothing," he repeated, dully. ’ A gleam of rare humour slid into Charvill’s chest.
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