At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. She rose, paid her bill, and turned westwards. What had Brewis Charvill to say to that, Gerald?’ ‘He had nothing to say to it. Denis. A lucky escape. Sheppard, faintly. Another picture slid across her vision. The man lingered. She drifted back into the welcoming arms of sleep, feeling herself surrounded in silk.
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