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. ‘As I have said, it was a quarrel between the vicomte and Monsieur Charvill. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. ‘Grace à vous, I am compelled to rescue myself.
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