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. “We are both of us trenching upon forbidden ground,” she said. Meanwhile, the clergyman, bare-headed and in his surplice, advanced to meet them. He begged their attention for the next turn. She seemed to assume that it must certainly be something she had said. Each one had been different from the others, each had had a quality all its own, a distinctive freshness, a distinctive beauty. We can’t.
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