"I had no thought of injuring your wife, and would have died rather than commit so foul a crime. ’ ‘I shall stop him,’ declared the old lady furiously. Why should I?” “At last,” he murmured, “at last I have found you. They are not your flowers. When I think of those ateliers of ours, the art jargon, the decadents with their flamboyant talk I long for a twoedged sword and a minute of Divinity. 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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