There is something that inspires a feeling of inexpressible melancholy in sailing on a dark night upon the Thames. 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. “He couldn’t look me in the face and say it,” said Ann Veronica. He understood. Swinging her arm in an arc, she let go of the foil and it flew across the chapel towards the main door, crashing down between the pews, and clattering onto the floor. All his dreams shattered in an instant.
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