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. “I believe that you would find her in some respects curiously altered. Remember! not a word!" So saying, he huddled the mantle over Wood's shoulders, dashed the lantern to the ground, and extinguished the light. It reminded her of one of the old tales her mother Marina had told her about a sculptor named Farhat. One glance through the window at that picturesque head had been sufficient.
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