The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. In the old days he had been something of an athlete—a runner, an oarsman, and a crack at tennis. The great gray boles of the palms reminded him of some fabulous Grecian temple. The glass in the windows was broken—the roof unthatched—the walls dilapidated. " "Well said, Jack," cried Figg. "Where is he?" asked she, in an agitated whisper. ’ ‘It is true,’ insisted the lady.
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