" "A novelist?" cried Ruth, thrilling. ‘Lawks-a-mussy! It’s Miss Mary. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. 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. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. She recoiled. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first.
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