He wasn't satisfied with an assured income from the paper-mills your grandfather left us. You would rather live like the scum of the earth, in that little brown hovel you call a house, in bourgeois paradise. “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!. ” He stopped abruptly. "But are you really there?" "No, I'm here," answered Jack, leaping down. Now, Sir.
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