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. Spurlock, filled with self-mockery, sat in a chair on the west veranda. All her tender lures, inherent and acquired, had shattered themselves futilely against the reserve he had set between them. She marvelled at his apparent imperviousness to the heat. When they were going home she asked her mother why she and Gwen and Alice had cried. The soil was identical, the climate; still, they would not bear the Olympian fruit, with its purple-lined jacket and its snow-white pulp. He displayed none of the airy optimism of their previous talk over the downland gate. "Show me your warrant!" said Wood, almost driven to his wit's-end; "perhaps it isn't regular?" "Ask him who he is?" suggested Thames.
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This video was uploaded to waterscolumns.info on 01-10-2024 04:46:30