One of your aunts died, I believe, and the other removed to London. Most subjects of any depth were taboo between them, especially when they were in his convertible. But we waste time. Loved his memory still, for all he knew. 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. ’ A grimace crossed her face. One little minute with soap and water, voilà tout.
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