He’d caught a fatal glimpse of that level where everybody knew everybody else, where however political fortunes below might bloom and die, the same people, the Real Ones, remained year in and year out, keeping what was desirable flowing their way.
“So sing that other song I made, Half anger’d with my happy lot, The day, when in the chestnut shade I found the blue Forget-me-not.”
Alfred, Lord Tennyson | “The Miller’s Daughter”
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