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 returned, “Lucy, you knew I didn’t live anywhere near you?” “I was aware. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. How came you by the hurt, eh?" "How did I come by it?—that's a nate question.
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