There was granite in her face and agate in her eyes. The autumn rain had made every surface tacky, the wet seats of painted red picnic tables were avoided. The galleries adjoining it were crowded with spectators,—so was the roof of a large tavern, then the only house standing at the end of the Edgeware Road,—so were the trees,—the walls of Hyde Park,—a neighbouring barn, a shed,—in short, every available position.
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