” Annabel moistened her dry lips with a handkerchief steeped in eau de Cologne. 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. To escape one phase of loneliness she had plunged into another, so vast that her courage sometimes faltered. So he decided to stay. . ‘Yes, but I’m probably chasing moonbeams. ” “Personally,” he went on, “I must confess to a great disappointment. .
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