“Who decorated the school like this?” She asked, peering up at the multicolored banners that hung everywhere. "So, stir your stumps, Saint Giles; and, if you mean to lock us up, use despatch. 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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