Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples, for I am sick of love. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. You did not complain then that I personated you—no, nor when Sir John came to me in Paris, and for your sake I lied. I have heard of you from my husband. ” That conversation ended and he turned to her again.
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