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. The dinner was stranger than she had ever anticipated. Wood. One would think that you enjoyed crawling away out of your world into hiding, with a very foolish wicked wife. ‘Couldn’t even trouble to make a pretence of motherhood. You do not believe me. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so.
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