“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. Your disobedience be upon your own head. ‘Ah, bah, it is enough,’ she cried, and turning, ran out of the room. 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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