“God in Heaven, Annabel!” he cried. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. “You too were deceived. There was a recurrence of fever, but nothing alarming. Some day I may forgive you; but not now. Essentially the talk was a mixture of fragments of sentences heard, of passages read, or arguments indicated rather than stated, and all of it was served in a sauce of strange enthusiasm, thin yet intense. I don’t.
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