“You see,” he said, “it is doubtful if we can ever marry. You desire to know who he was, Sir Rowland. A door in this house opened upon the yard. 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. These were his mistresses, Poll Maggot and Edgeworth Bess. We WERE thieves. The visitors, when they entered, looked thoroughly intimidated and Everett concealed a grim smile.
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