It’s one of our conventional superstitions. 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 am glad,” she told herself, “I came. Was she interested in that young ass who was risking his bones over there in the city? They had come up on the same boat. Surely he was imagining this picture. She suspected that he would take a mistress just as soon as they returned to Florence.
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