“Isn’t the question more complicated than that?” said Ann Veronica. 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. Wood. The idea of leaving for Mexico had become unbearable, as he was so easy to like and perhaps even easier to love. Entranced, he stared at the name.
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