The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. Grace-church Street was entirely deserted, except by a few stragglers, whose curiosity got the better of their fears; or who, like the carpenter, were compelled to proceed along it. That was the Frenchie, Valade, surely. The contact is disturbing; and we prefer going around the fact to facing it. He was not there.
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