There he paused again, half turning his back and pretending to look for someone among the soldiers on the benches. “Really,” she said. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. His face warm, Captain Roding glared them into silence, and firmly marched his captive off down Piccadilly, heading for Stratton Street where the town house of the Alderley family was situated. ” He adjusted his glasses on his nose.
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