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. I’ve had it, Sheila. There is scarcely one chance in a dozen of saving his life; there would be none at all if he were moved. His arm fell to his side. He was brooding over her, she could sense it, and the shadowy circles around his lovely dark eyes bespoke a terrible ongoing insomnia.
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