“Not to-night,” she said. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Gently she raised his head and withdrew the coat from under the pillow. In the grate were some charred fragments of a marriage certificate. Then he could hear Hilary breathing beside him, and from outside the muted twittering of birds.
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