“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!. “The little English girl is very fortunate. The real tragedy—which he sensed and toward which he was always reaching—eluded all his verbal skill. A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. “Go to the far corner,” he said, “and sing the last verse of Les Petites.
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