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. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. He looked at her guiltily. Then, even as they stood there, the room was plunged into darkness. A couple of gilt straight-backed chairs only. ‘Dunderhead.
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