He's coming. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. "Well, my pretty dears," he added, "—to see your husband, eh? You must make the most of your time. He looked at it eagerly, but made no movement to take it. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer. The light would betray us.
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