\" She opened the front door with her keys, stepping inside. "Don't look at it, I entreat," she cried. Why should they be? She and Ramage were friends, very good friends. But then, because my papa had no money, you understand, he sent me to a convent. She ought to have written at once and told him exactly what had happened. 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.
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