"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Mrs. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. Try and let him never regret it. But perhaps I had better get a room in an hotel to-night and look round.
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