She held it down with the poker, looking nervously over her shoulder. "Strange!" he continued, as if talking to himself. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside. "Right," said the Master, "I didn't think of her. 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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