Her evident terror and distress reinforced the tale he told. She so wanted to keep her memory of him fresh, so wanted to memorize his kisses and to conjure his embrace someday when he was mere dust in the ground. 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. She would have just to keep the fifteen pounds until she could make it twenty. It’s a sort of home-leaving instinct. ’ ‘Ah, that explains your surprise.
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