’ Gerald sat back in his chair, thinking hard. She stood looking down upon him with dilated eyes. Here I am. When she spoke, her lips twitched. 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. The satisfaction of cheating Death again. The poor child! What frightful things she must have seen on that island of hers! The noise of crashing glass caused a diversion; and Ruth turned gratefully toward the sound. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers.
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