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. ” Her mind diverged to other aspects, and another type of womanhood. ‘Oh, Jacques, I cannot forgive myself!’ ‘Never you fret, miss,’ he uttered at once in a faint voice. And, yet, I don't know. ” “The man?” 228 “Yes. “Why? Do you think I’m a stoner?” He asked. She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force.
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