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. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. But this is a great lark, Ann Veronica! This turns life into a glorious adventure!” “Ah!” she cried in triumph. ‘Do not beg my pardon. " "Don't worry about that.
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