Gerald was conscious of that sliver of irritation again at mention of the name. 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. ‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. ‘We’ll have you right out of the way, just in case. Where was the harm in letting her go? She could not get far. This one was Henry Esmond, that one the melancholy Marius, and so forth and so on; never any villains. . . You’re of age— you’re of age.
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