"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. The girl was like some north-country woodland pool, penetrated by a single shaft of sunlight—beautifully clear in one spot and mysteriously obscured elsewhere. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. Shotbolt?" asked Austin. Give me your hand. Anna leaned back with half closed eyes.
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