Advancing towards Wood, Jonathan fixed his keen gray eyes upon him, and demanded, in a stern tone whether the persons who had taken refuge in the adjoining house, were bailiffs. She could smell his cologne underneath his collar, or perhaps his aftershave. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. ‘Bête. “I’ll buy a new one. Wild," observed the knight, contemptuously.
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