Unless it was a jewel or locket of some kind. Such pretty manners, she thought. 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. Had he not said so? Not that she wished him to marry her. For the face under her gaze she could find but one expression—fine. They’re just a joyous softening of the outline—more beautiful than perfection.
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