‘How disappointing,’ mourned Gerald. The militia offered little in the way of relief. ‘There are no Remenhams left. 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. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. ‘I’m damned if I see what you have to complain of,’ uttered Charvill, a faintly bewildered note underlying his irascibility.
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