But the figure was evidently too intent on peering within the ballroom to pay any attention to what might be occurring outside. 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. She could visualize the picture she had presented, particularly the battered papier-mâché kitbag at her feet. The stags and oxen and things all have to fight for us, everywhere. “You did good!” She closed her eyes and rested in the moment, imagining a normal life where she would go to college, have babies with John, watch her children have children, live, and die as she had always wanted to.
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