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At the turn of the last century, a family takes their children—two identically dressed girls—for an outing in the city. Given the top hats and dress coats, perhaps they are going to a show, to the opera, or a play. At the moment, however, their attention has been drawn to the flower seller and his pink wares. It’s thrilling, the clang of the trolley cars, the murmur of the crowd, the way you can see your own breath in the cold. And it’s snowing, and somehow the snow makes the scene all the more magical and memorable, filtering the gaslights and the lights from the windows with a gauze of mystery. Harvey painted memory, and Children in the City has the quality of a moment remembered, a day—perhaps a day long past—recalled in all its wonder.