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She was never out of disgrace, so it did not matter to her how she sat. Emerging from the fernery, he opened the wicket gate, which just there led into the first field, a large and park-like area, out of which, within brick walls, the vegetable garden had been carved. His heart swelled, and he went out, stilling the sound of his patent-leather boots.
Below the oak tree the lawn dipped down a bank, stretched to the fernery, and, beyond that refinement, became fields, dropping to the pond, the coppice, and the prospect--'Fine, remarkable'--at which Swithin Forsyte, from under this very tree, had stared five years ago when he drove down with Irene to look at the house. Old Jolyon avoided this, which did not suit his mood, and made down the hill towards the pond. In the corridor an eccentric notion attacked him: To think that children should come to that which Irene had told him she was helping! ' They had never borne reflecting on, those poor outcasts; wounding too deeply the core of true refinement hidden under layers of conformity to the sense of property--wounding too grievously the deepest thing in him--a love of beauty which could give him, even now, a flutter of the heart, thinking of his evening in the society of a pretty woman.
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In the last day of May in the early 'nineties, about six o'clock of the evening, old Jolyon Forsyte sat under the oak tree below the terrace of his house at Robin Hill. Her long dark lashes clung to her cheeks; on her face was perfect peace--her little arrangements were evidently all right again.
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