She wore a black satin dress, a little shiny at the seams, a purposeless bow of white tulle at the back of her neck, and a huge chatelaine. But there was no sign from her. "What motive have you for concealment?" he demanded. 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. ‘I don’t want that girl running her head into any more danger. Sheppard had been interred.
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