"And yet—but it is only part of the chain of ill-luck that seems wound around me. “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!. ’ ‘It’s not that,’ the nun said urgently, ‘but I’ve remembered something important. ” Anna shook her head. Tell me a story—with apple-blossoms in it—about people who are happy.
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