The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Fortescue raised his eyebrows and assumed a light-comedy expression. You have misunderstood. “One has to be so careful of one’s friends and acquaintances,” he remarked, by way of transition. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. Sydney was strumming over a new song which stood upon the piano.
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