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. “Ye Gods!” she said at last. “What’s that young lady’s name—girl in dark brown, stranger here?” Mr. The metrical irregularity is intentional, because I want, as it were, to put you apart: to change the lilt and the mood altogether when I speak of you. "Where am I?" she cried, passing her hand across her brow.
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