Perhaps an hour passed before she laid aside the book. Kneebone nodded. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. It would not have been for her an anomaly to read a love story in which there were no kisses. She was consumed by misery and hate. ” “But waive that point. ” Anna shrugged her shoulders lightly. “I mean to,” she replied. It was John Diedermayer, who had been transformed into a young scholar with a large pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses on. Prudence was the substance and Angelina the shadow; for Angelina never offered opinions, she only agreed with those advanced by Prudence. The evening was warm and inviting, one meant to be spent outdoors.
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