But at the word “home” she turned again. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared. ‘There are no Remenhams left. Work becomes distasteful; one thinks of holidays. 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. “Where are they?” She looked around. So kind, so good to me always.
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