She addresses you as the Flower of the Lotus, as the Resplendent Moonbeam. It was her foster brother Mike, on his way to the bathroom. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. He turned his eyes and stared at Miss Garvice like one who wakes from a reverie, and then got up and strolled down the laboratory toward his refuge, the preparation-room. It is queer how ideas pop into one's head.
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