The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. ’ ‘Must we talk of it? I’m trying to forget it. Ray Plote would not leave a written explanation. "Mur—der!" roared Wood, struggling to free himself from his assailant, by whom he was half strangled. Spurling attended him as his nurse, and, under her care, he speedily revived. I’ll take over here. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica.
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