He righted a chair and sat in it, his face in his hands. In a tall glass the rind of a Syrian orange was arranged in spiral form. "Have nine years so changed me, that there is no trace left of your adopted son?" "God bless me!" ejaculated the carpenter, rubbing his eyes, "can—can it be?" "Surely," screamed Mrs. “Well, I don’t think you told him as much as that, did you?” Lady Lescelles asked. " "To be sure you are," replied Jonathan, laughing.
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