" The tone was neutral. 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. When the lad is fit to be moved, we’ll bring him home. He fell back upon the pillows with a little moan, clutching the slim white fingers fiercely. It is in vain to struggle against the arm of fate.
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