“It was poison—why not?” she answered. He looked melancholy enough, it is true. Little things, almost impalpable, had happened to justify that doubt; something in his manner had belied his words. The Frenchman was already being followed. 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. V.
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