Mary Remenham had passed on her every feature to the daughter whose advent had taken her from this world. Russell trouble, a good lot of trouble. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. “They would spoil every chance. ’ ‘I don’t want to think it,’ he said, and she thrilled to the savagery in his tone. Don’t stand gawping, man. He lit a cigarette and loitered about. 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 wonder,” she murmured to herself, “if this is the beginning.
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