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. Wood, regarding her husband with a glance of vindictive triumph. This obstacle removed, he thought he might now make the attempt. “Of course I’m manager for this expedition,” he said, after an interval of self-examination. The sun was all but gone now, the horizon a deep shade of purple. It wound around a small manufactured lake.
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