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" "Six weeks have elapsed since that fatal night," replied Jack. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. The walls were pristine white and unmarked except for two sconces and a rather colorless Monet poster that had been framed in an expensive oak surround. He then said that if she would not obey him in this course she should “never darken his doors again,” and was, indeed, frightfully abusive. “Can you take any from me?” “No, I won’t do that. With the same inducements we should all do the same thing. Small wonder she had learned to be self-reliant. “Time for my Patience,” she said. 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. "You know not what you do.
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