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. CHAPTER X. She was carefree. She stood face to face with him, and his voice cut across her speech and made her stop abruptly. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. Surely he was imagining this picture. He was not used to not getting his way. "A bad business this, Van," observed Baptist, with a prolonged shake of the head. “I knew,” she said, in a low despairing tone, “that people would talk. “And all the rest of it perhaps is a song. What more is there to be said? She defies me!” It was extraordinary. . “Mid-thirties. .
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