She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness. Smiling, the Chinaman gave the correct pronunciation. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. “Oh, I can’t thank you. ” Anna’s demeanour was still imperturbable, her marble pallor untinged by the slightest flush of colour. 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. ’ It took several frustrating moments, working at the protrusions of the carving down the side of the bookshelves, tugging at leaves, pushing at flowers. ” She gazed at him.
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