"I am Owen Wood, at your service. “Of course it is okay!” Cathy’s voice rose in volume and in pitch. 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. ‘You!’ ‘Yes, it is I, mademoiselle,’ he continued in his own tongue. To-morrow I shall come and talk to you again—of other things.
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