"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. That is very bad, certainly, and for this he was extremely sorry. Her lover, Darrell, has embarked upon the Thames, where, if he's not capsized by the squall, (for it's blowing like the devil,) he stands a good chance of getting his throat cut by his pursuers—ha! ha! I tracked 'em to the banks of the river, and should have followed to see it out, if the watermen hadn't refused to take me. You will have a bungalow to yourself," continued McClintock, "and your morning meal will be your own affair. Just let him down easy, Lucy.
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