He had never wanted daughters. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. “Look at our affair,” he went on, looking up at her. Nigel Ennison, Annabel. I take more than their blood, John. 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.
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