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. A stout female stood in the aperture, an oil lamp in her hand. ‘To begin with,’ he said, ‘allow me a very tiny intimacy. She was watching him intently. She sings better perhaps. But you! Why the devil did you marry her? That's the thing that confounds me. Yours?" The stranger hesitated.
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