She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. Somehow to-night—I don’t know. Nobody can anticipate your next move. 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. Jiggle-joggle, jiggle-joggle…! For each pause she was grateful. The brain tires of resistance, and when it meets again and again, incoherently active, the same phrases, the same ideas that it has already slain, exposed and dissected and buried, it becomes less and less energetic to repeat the operation. " "Where—where?" cried Thames. Perhaps," she added, in a whisper, as she appropriated the beforenamed article, "he has a pocket-book.
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