There is some deep treachery hidden beneath his words. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. 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. The booming voice and the energetic movements spoke plainly of hurry.
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