Ah! how I wish, poor dear Sir Cecil were alive! he'd keep him in order. Perhaps for the first time he realized that Anna was by no means an ordinary person. ‘This is not love, Marthe. 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.
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