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. She shuddered, adding confidentially, ‘You wouldn’t get me in there now, mind. Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. Had it not been lashed to the adjoining wherry, it must have been upset, and have precipitated the opponents into the water. ’ ‘What son?’ asked Roding. A jar of pink roses upon a tiny table seemed to gain an extra delicacy of colour from the sombre curtains behind. ‘I am not a person, Marthe.
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