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     Love is no hot-house flower, but a wild plant, born of  a wet night, born of an hour of sunshine; sprung  from wild seed, blown along the road by a wild wind.  A wild plant that, when it blooms by chance within the hedge of our gardens, we call a flower; and when it blooms outside we call a  weed; but, flower or weed, whose scent and colour  are always, wild!  ~ The Forsyte Saga  by John Galsworthy   
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