"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. But the letter, written in his son’s own hand, and addressed to the Mother Abbess of the Convent of the Sisters of Wisdom near Blaye in the district of Santonge, dated a little over five years previously, exercised a powerful effect upon him. He had the appearance of a man who has known no rest for many nights. Three times he uttered a phrase: "A djinn in a blue-serge coat!" And each time he would follow it with a chuckle—the chuckle of a soul in damnation. “I’d rather go as a chorus-girl,” she said. I tell you that I love you, Anna, and I believe that you love me. His arms released from his 68 sides, he lifted them around her in a light embrace. When at first she had realized that he 206 had conducted a sexual affair with a local well-known Florentine courtesan she called him out, accusing him of exposing her to an array of diseases. "I shall like to call you that. ‘Imbecile. ’ Kimble’s eyes widened.
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