"Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. “Call it warning, if you like. Think if your own mother was alive!” He paused, deeply moved. The room was dark and dusty. Then the dagger’s point came in a whirling arc towards his face. You care for me just a little, I know. Montressor’s guests were. Master, your humble servant.
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