One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself. 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. “Now,” he said, “no one can blunder in upon us. CHAPTER III. “In any case you will never receive any different sort of answer from me. D'ye hear how the wanes creaks on old Winchester House? We shall have a touch on it ourselves presently.
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