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. He was waiting for the midges
to bite him, before abandoning the glory of the afternoon. His thin
brown hand, where blue veins stood out, held the end of a cigar in
its tapering, long-nailed fingers.
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