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. "And now, to your own concerns. What you said wanted saying. WE don’t think they’re right, but they don’t think we are. He was wrapped in a laced roquelaure, which he threw off on his entrance into the room. She had made her way since then a little further into the heart of life.
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