She held her hand to the place where he had slapped her. If they entered a shop, he paused by the doorway, as if waiting for the journey to be resumed. “Where would you like to go? Are you hungry?” “No. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Do get your hat, and we will go to that corner café. ” Her eyes glinted, macabre. A widow for the fourth time, Mrs.
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