And she buried herself beneath the straw, which she tossed above her head with the wildest gestures. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent. A short way off in the fields he descried a sort of shed or cow-house, and thither he contrived to drag his weary limbs. “Oh, Veronica!” she said, “to leave your home!” She had been weeping. The oranges were of the Syrian variety, small but filled with scarlet honey.
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