All bad verse—originally the epigram was Lang’s, I believe—is written in a state of emotion. Presently, two carriages dashed down the hill, and drew up before it. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. ‘What’s more,’ went on Martha, ‘I knew something Mr Charvill didn’t, or he wouldn’t so readily have left it behind him. I was compelled to run away.
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