“A little nervous. 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. You must have figured that out by now. ‘What a catalogue. She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers. It was dusty, with dirty clothing strewn about, a cracked basin thick with grime on the rickety dresser, and a film of grease on the leaded casement. Something to tell you. He had gained admission somehow, and he too was waiting for Anna.
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