“No, he wouldn’t come here of all places—just now. I wasn't taught that; I simply fell into it from contact. Suddenly all this makes you human. My eyes are open to you. "What do you mean?" cried Winifred in alarm. “I won’t have you quarrelling and crying in the Avenue,” he said. We can be friends again. There is turmoil, shouts, cries, jostlings, milling congestions that suddenly break and flow in opposite directions. 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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