“It is a hateful story. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. 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. Leave go, I tell you!" and he forced open the knife with his teeth. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. It is enough to make a man throw away canvas and brushes into the bottomless precipices, enough to make one weep with despair at his utter and absolute impotence. It was exactly as Sebastian had foreseen.
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