“Hotel Ritz,” he said mechanically to the coachman. Nothing to do; nothing for the hands, the mind, the heart. 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. She fled. She was alone, and the mask of her unchanging high spirits was for the moment laid aside.
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