’ ‘Oh, you are, are you?’ said the nun, evidently not mollified, but she was forestalled. Jonathan laughed scornfully. “Of course. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. Her mother brewed potions to scent her hair, sweet balms of anise for her lips and hands, told her wonderful secrets, some decidedly un-Christian.
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