She stared out of the paned glass window, watching the trees being blown bare by the gale force. —'They can't, I tell you,' says I, in a bit of a passion; 'it's unconstitutional. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. 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. You need not tell me, but a lawyer is different. As for me, I look twice at it. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity.
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