"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. Presently he felt motion. "At a place we call the Dark House at Queenhithe," answered Jonathan, "a sort of under-ground tavern or night-cellar, close to the river-side, and frequented by the crew of the Dutch skipper, to whose care he's to be committed. “You can keep him at arm’s length. All the village was assembled in the churchyard.
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