My heart would speak if it could, for it is very full. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. ‘I dropped the lantern,’ Jack’s muffled voice told her. It was one of the secret troubles of her mind, this grotesque twist her ideas would sometimes take, as though they rebelled and rioted. 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. I got a rusty bolt cutter.
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