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 had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. It felt wonderful and golden to bask in the sunlight of their approval, even if their approval was fickle and dangerous. Over an old crazy bedstead was thrown a squalid, patchwork counterpane; and upon the counterpane lay a black hood and scarf, a pair of bodice of the cumbrous form in vogue at the beginning of the last century, and some other articles of female attire. “He’s quite the inventor. “I thought much of it amazingly beautiful. Winifred screamed. He noted the strong white teeth as they snipped the thread. “I do want you. But you’ve got to lend me forty pounds. “I say, daddy,” she began, and was suddenly short of breath.
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