"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. I never forgive an injury. It’s all right. CHAPTER X. She stole her glances sideways like the rest of the women. He's had a hard knock somewhere; and until he is strong enough to walk, we must keep his interest away from that thought. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow. CHAPTER XVIII.
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