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. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. ‘Knowed it the instant I set eyes on her. ‘Still—here? Wasting your—time. Conquer the difficult situation in which she found herself.
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