It was the last thing she felt like drinking. “I hope that it has not done any harm. 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 do not love your husband, you have married him for a position —to escape from—things which you feared. A mate? A brother-lover to tromp about the world with? “I cannot.
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