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. It was not possible. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. I don’t know anyone. He squinted and a disgusted look came over him. I'm a slave to my word.
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