‘Read that,’ and threw the telegram at me, so that it went into the tureen. Wood. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. As soon, however, as the last solemn rites were over, and the remains of the unfortunate woman committed to their final resting-place in Willesden churchyard, his firmness completely deserted him, and he sank beneath the weight of his affliction. The lad had just barely jangled it, when hurrying footsteps could be heard inside. And they could talk, they found; and never once, it seemed, did their meaning and intention hitch.
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