Part of her even believed that her mother would have wanted her to stop feeling guilty and to be happy. . “I saw—they knocked off your fetters yesterday. “I see nothing of my sister,” she said. They WERE, she realized, acutely beautiful things. 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. She kept him talking all the way to the doorstep of the Beck's home, a small 1970s brown split-level in the old part of town.
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