But if I were dying of thirst, in a desert, I would not accept a cup of water at her hands. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. . They were ingenious disguises of gilt paper destructively gummed, it would seem, to Ann Veronicas’ best dancing-slippers. I can keep you. 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. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. She was poor. To my loving parents and brothers, and my Aunts, Gail and Barb.
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