” “Well, why not?” Lady Lescelles asked, smiling. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. He even hugged her a few times, something he had never done. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. ” “You’d like to do that?” “Exactly.
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