“And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better. This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me. At least I imagine so, if what Madame Valade claims is true. “You are neither of you in the least like the ordinary boarding-house young man. 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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