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. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. It is Anna again who stands between me and ruin. "Is the case of watches on board?" he asked in an under tone. Wild is incapable of such baseness. . . Before he could draw in the rein, his steed—startled apparently by some object undistinguishable by the rider,—swerved with such suddenness as to unseat him, and precipitate him on the ground.
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