Lucy looked at her reflection with a measure of awe. “Why can’t we propagate by sexless spores, as the ferns do? We restrict each other, we badger each other, friendship is poisoned and buried under it!. Wear one on the stage on the following day. The poor wretch, driven by desperation to the commission of a crime which her soul abhors, is no more beyond the hope of reformation than she is without the pale of mercy. Love…. ‘Of course I see that,’ she said impatiently.
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