There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. Stanley. She used his own gun against him, a method that was occasionally cleaner than slitting throats when she got it right. ‘You had better kill me, mademoiselle, because otherwise I shall end by strangling you. “Thank God,” he exclaimed. "This tongue looks remarkably nice," he added, slicing off an immense wedge, "excuse me—ho! ho!" "You make yourself at home, I perceive," observed Kneebone, with a look of ineffable disgust.
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