It is no good. 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. She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. "You needn't go far to do that," returned Quilt; "there he stands.
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