” “But Italy—” “Italy’s for a good girl,” he said, and laid his hand for a moment on her shoulder. I love my husband. As she went on, the story began to sound more and more like a recitation. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. It is you who took my name, not I yours.
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