Her mind turned to her own future, the endless trickle of years. All the world about her seemed to be—how can one put it?—in wrappers, like a house when people leave it in the summer. 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 was given no sword and shield and forced into the ring with a dozen armored warriors with full weaponry.
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