Rhea became alarmed that she was about to leave. “I wish you would not do it. She turned her cheek to the cold sill; and by and by the sill grew warm and wet with tears. 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. “Nigel, don’t you understand. Sir Rowland," he added, in a deep whisper, "do you agree to my terms?" "I do," answered Trenchard, in the same tone.
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