It would be too mortifying. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. 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. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Each morning his inquiry was properly answered: the patient was steadily improving, but none could say when he would be strong enough to proceed upon his journey.
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