"Her ladyship—" faltered the attendant. 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. Yet he’s been here for six years, and he’s as much a fixture as that sham mahogany sideboard. “You are the Sir John Ferringhall who has bought the Lyndmore estate, are you not?” she remarked. “I would like to go home,” she cried, “to please her. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried. In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. “But all the rest of our case is right.
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