I wish she wouldn’t look like that at us over her glasses. “I am sorry,” she said, “if you find the likeness unsatisfactory. ’ ‘Well, I am glad he did not,’ intervened Lucilla, forestalling another withering comment from the captain. It’s these damned novels. 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. It was Annabel’s. You are not my husband. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. .
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