"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The flicker of an eyelash might betray his presence. “But why,” he said in the gasping voice of one subduing an agony, and looked at her from under a pain-wrinkled brow, “why did you not tell me this before?” “I didn’t know—I thought I might be able to control myself. "Is it gold?" "Pure gold," replied Kneebone. ‘So it would appear. He refused.
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