\"Would you like some orange juice?\" Larry had already been working outside for an hour, Mike at his side, dragging grass clippings to the compost pile. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. "Spare me!" Jonathan, however, instead of answering him, searched for his knife, with the intention of severing his wrist. "Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. That’s the difficulty.
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