"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. “A man who does not touch his wife, who ignores his wife, what kind of man is he? I am not sick any more. 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 was evidently nervous, and very anxious to be impressive; his projecting eyes sought to dominate.
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