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. I just wanted a breath of air. I mean—I mean to do what I can. She fought him at first, screaming at him, but he did not relent. Ann Veronica intervened a little in the novelist discussion with a defence of Esmond and a denial that the Egoist was obscure, and when she spoke every one else stopped talking and listened. I have pleaded with her—no wonder that I have pleaded with her in vain. “Your best route will be via Boulogne and Folkestone at nine o’clock from the Gare du Nord. “And think, think”—her voice sank —“of the horrible coarseness!” “What coarseness?” said Ann Veronica. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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