I had dreamt of the olive grove beyond the courtyard I had once been fascinated 198 with as a boy. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. ” Meddoes turned round from the table on which he was practising shots and shrugged his shoulders. It was the last thing she felt like drinking. “Next door,” said a spectacled young person of seventeen or eighteen, with an impatient indication of the direction.
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