It seems only yesterday that she was running down the Avenue, all hair and legs. But she did not in the least want to do that. Jonathan, however, was well acquainted with the road. 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. He will be some time in this comatose state. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. He has been bottling it up all the way from West Kensington. "Anything else?" "Your waistcoat. His shirt was unfastened, his vest unbuttoned, his hose ungartered; his feet were stuck into a pair of pantoufles, his arms into a greasy flannel dressing-gown, his head into a thrum-cap, the cap into a tie-periwig, and the wig into a gold-edged hat. I wish nothing at all from them.
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