Something happened down there, and probably I'll never know what. Here you only waste your time. " She kindled with sympathy. 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. He flung Ruth aside, careless whether she fell or not. And she did not merely affect to be driven—she felt driven. Superstition—you knock into it whichever way you turn.
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