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There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. "Sir!" exclaimed Winifred, rising. She opened her suitcase—new and smelling strongly of leather—and took out of it a book, dogeared and precariously held together, bound in faded blue cloth and bearing the inscription: The Universal Handbook. One thing—he could be thankful for that—the peak of his misfortunes had been reached; the world might come to an end now and not matter in the least. Tucked under the writing-table a pair of yellow and gold Turkish slippers of a highly meretricious quality caught her eye. Mountains out of molehills and armies out of windmills; and you'll tire yourself in one direction and shatter yourself in the other. "You base ingrate," she added, in a whisper, as she flounced past Mr. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl.
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