The Major gazed darkly at me, reminding me of his objections when the mining bots had dragged Les Misérables from the dump, a real old paper copy, somehow still legible. I had not had the heart to forbid Bridger to read it, but at story time Bridger always used to turn on the waterworks even when the ‘bad guy’ died. Now we were watching the bookmark crawl millimeter by millimeter through the masterpiece which brings tears to the eyes of disillusioned adults. We all imagine happy endings to such books, pick out the page, the paragraph, in which we would step in and pluck the innocents to
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