Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. He panted for a moment with unuttered replies, and then, with a scornful gesture, got up and left the cell. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. Maggot. For a moment she remained silent. I love you more.
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