He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. He touched her hand, soft and cool to his fingers—she turned at once to look at him. She lay and nibbled at a sprig of dwarf rhododendron. Her fingers rested upon his. “I ought never have gone to the Zoo, I suppose. It is I who took the burden of your misdeeds upon my shoulders that you might become Lady Ferringhall. Maggot tenderly.
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