E. "My horses, Charcam," he said, as a servant appeared. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. There were two sisters, you know. Books were always sliding and slipping, clumsy objects to hold. "Shoot him! shoot him! Put him out of hish mishery," cried the Jew. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. ‘It is in no way your affair, monsieur, and you will unhand me at once.
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