“Thought so. 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. The echoes of his hard, unpleasant laugh reached Anna on her way upstairs. ‘No, no, I am convinced your very first theory was right. “Lucy! Where is my daughter? Where have you. And if she is not a nun, nor a refugee, and yet is entirely English, I’m hanged if I know what she is. .
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