” She lifted her eyebrows. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. But McClintock's mind was perceptive, whereas Spurlock's was only dully confused. The sword, Jacques. "By the avenger of his family's dishonour—by your brother," he replied, coolly. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is.
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