In any event, I explained that no one lived here and that we’d been called in because of suspected intruders. 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. “I don’t want you to do it, to go on talking to me. “About my sister,” she repeated slowly. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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