. "Blueskin," said Ireton. Grasping it firmly with both hands, he quickly wrenched if from the stones in which it was mortised, and leapt to the ground. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent.
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