And above the crowd of living figures rise colossal forms of armed warriors, and peaceful poets, and sceptred monarchs; these glowing crimson; those standing calm and pale in the cold light of day.
They listened to the sound of Fanny’s retreating footsteps. ‘Well, well!’ said Marcus. ‘Oh, take no notice Jess. You know what our Frances Maud is like! It’s nothing to cry about!’ To her humiliation Jessamy found there were tears trickling down her cheeks.
In the desk drawer, a sacheted cache of letters stamped with flags, with heroes, birds or flowers.
Perhaps the crusty old buzzard loved his only child more than anyone had given him credit for all these years — maybe even more than he himself had realized.
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