A pretty piece. “I think,” he said, “I was a little too mystical about beauty the other day. It’s a damned hard thing to do. You wanted to play a lone hand. 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. And you have stolen my dagger.
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