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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. “For one thing I am going to marry David Courtlaw. \"Carry your books for you?\" He asked. "I advise you against this trip, Mr. It isn’t pretty, but we’re made so. Attempt to molest me, and I split. Wood, in equal trepidation. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky.
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