“It’s a nice holiday. 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 might not condone it, but the feelings that had prompted it augured well for Melusine’s safety. “There’s another instinct, too,” he went on, “in a state of suppression, unless I’m very much mistaken; a child-expelling instinct. "I will have it now," rejoined Trenchard, "or our agreement is void. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. She crept out of the shadows.
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