The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. We looked upon you, my dear Sir John, with reverence, almost with awe. He was a large oafish man, a man that seemed deceptively harmless, and some thought him slightly retarded. The man’s as obstinate as a mule. ‘Laisse-moi!’ Impatience swamped him. Never mind.
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