“Martin Chen!” Michelle shouted his name in an outburst, like an invocation. 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 won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room.
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