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. Ann Veronica’s desire to laugh unrestrainedly was checked by the tremendous earnestness of his expression. It was Sunday evening—a soft delicious evening, and, from the happy, cheerful look of the house, none would have dreamed of the dismal tragedy so lately acted within its walls. “When did you get home last night, Lucy?” Cathy interrogated through a yawn. The day was unseasonably humid and dark, a thick fog having descended over manicured lawns. "In Canton.
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