207 She romanced a dark-haired farmer a few times, having long since forgotten his name. The sky beyond was a surreal color of pink that reminded her of the windows she had once been entranced by at the castle chapel, their leaden lines depicting old religious stories and sufferings. She heard the ocean in the distance, waves crashing on the beach, high tide. " "As many as you please, Sir Rowland," replied Jonathan, resuming his seat. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. The whole affair interested him deeply. Hearing the approach of the rider, Mr. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. " "And why not?" asked Kneebone, eagerly. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is.
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