He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. 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. "A capital instrument for my purpose," thought Jack, shouldering it, "and worth all the trouble I have had in procuring it. She felt that she was not alone.
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