‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. In seconds, they faced each other before the altar. But to choose this of all moments. She found herself struggling with a storm of tears. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. To disillusion her, forthwith. " "All right, teacher; I'll shave and comb my hair. 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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