He passed, and came loitering back and stood beside her, silently looking into her face. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. ‘You wish a reason for jealousy? Eh bien, you may have it. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp.
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