"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The thought of you, wandering from pillar to post, believing yourself hunted—it tore my old heart to pieces! For I knew you. But what a monster was this Emile. He opened his eyes, protestingly, and beheld the realization of his dream. She had fallen asleep on the wooden bed, uncaring of lice or bedbugs. From there I plan to travel until I reach Columbia—but any lawless country will do. There was a trader—a man who bought copra and pearls.
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