The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand. Where can we sit down and talk?” He led her across the room towards a window recess, in which a tall, fair young man was seated with an evening paper in his hand. ’ ‘I’m hanged if I can make out either of you,’ complained Hilary. “I fail to see the joke,” Sir John said.
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