She feared he might take her tears as a sign of weakness. 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. Their soft, voluptuous bodies wove among each other to the faint notes of a lyre. He rolled on top of her, pinning her with his arms and forming a tented cage.
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