"She has flown up stairs," replied the widow. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. The entire city seemed to exist for beauty and art alone. “Number 13, please, cabman. The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky.
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