The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey. This smile was more harrowing even than her former rigid look. Amid this varied throng,—varied in appearance, but alike in character,—one object alone, we have said, rivetted Mrs. Capes looked at one and not over one, spoke to one, treated one as a visible concrete fact. ‘You don’t even know what it means, do you?’ Melusine frowned.
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