The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. “Of course it is, Anna. ‘And it is not only a question of her identity, but a matter of her life as well. “That’s suicidal bullshit, Lucy. “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!. There was a shrill cry, instantly succeeded by a deep splash.
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