‘That is good,’ she said with satisfaction, ‘for I was compelled on Saturday to abandon the chase. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. He wrote poems to her beauty that he recited from a seemingly infinite memory. ‘Parbleu, I hope that I do not have many more times to come in this way to the house,’ she muttered fretfully.
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