She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. No umbrella either, the sky was delightfully overcast. I told her it was the end. ’ Melusine’s eyes misted. “I don’t think she quite sees the harm of those people or the sort of life to which they would draw her,” she said.
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