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”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. The dress was her mother's, and she was wearing it to save a little extra money. Anna sent her away. Instinctively she imitated this action, chilled and a little frightened at the expression of terror that confronted her. The wretch you confide in has sworn to hang you.
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