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. Shouting to his companion, even as they passed by where I hid myself, he called out that he thought to find you at the convent. Then he released her hand, and sat back a little, appearing to concentrate his thoughts on her face. I am the cause of his ill-usage.
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