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. I figured it would hurt your feelings if you knew I still talked to him, so I kept my mouth shut. White became conscious of a distinct sense of uneasiness, and showed it in her face. Sordid; but that was not Ruth's term for it; she had no precise commentary to offer.
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