The trees were graceful and brown, arching and fanning their golden leaves as if to shower with coins the pink-gold sky. "I suppose it didn't drop through the ceiling, did it? Are you quite sure it's flesh and blood?" asked he, playfully pinching its arm till it cried out with pain. “You go home and think of all this,” he said, “and talk about it to-morrow. The room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. "'The Man Who Could Not Go Home.
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