What gave the puzzling twist to an ordinary situation was her manner: she was guileless. You did it on your own?” Ann Veronica smiled. 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. Wood, in his Sunday habiliments and Sunday buckle. “Better,” said Ann Veronica, with an unreal alacrity.
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