‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. 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. “Only four spoonsful left,” she declared briskly, “and your turn to buy the next pound, Sydney. Admire her as much as you choose—at a distance. . ‘I don’t know that I dare.
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