So, in broken, rather breathless phrases, he told his story; and when he had done, he laid his arms upon the table and bent his head to them. He took her hands firmly in his and raised them to his lips. And he began also at times to wake at night and think about her. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Try and let him never regret it.
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