She opened and read it at once. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. A lesson learned. I'm a slave to my word. “I—I shall be all right directly. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. So go up-stairs and get your things together while I look out for a hansom. I want to talk to Mr. “Buon Primomaggio.
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