"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. ’ The dagger was in her hand. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so. \" he replied, though it was obvious that he was lying. ‘Oh, Lord,’ muttered Gerald, going instantly to her aid. "We work together no more.
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