I would have heard her. 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. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. Women and men had always flocked to him, covetous of his knowledge, his riches, and if all else failed, his carnal expertise. I am something of an old fogey, Anna, I’m afraid, but if you treat me like this you will teach me to forget it.
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