She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. 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. Into this hole in the wall and out of it the native stream flowed from sunrise to sunset, when the stream mysteriously ceased. ‘Of course she don’t understand,’ snapped Charvill irascibly. The boy she had loved was gone. She is the wife now of another man. After all, his was a pleasant face, and a pleasant voice, and very likely Annabel had behaved badly. " "A white wall is a fool's paper, Jack,—remember that," rejoined Wood. 175 “Before you tell me the whole story,” she emphasized the penultimate word, “just let me do something for you. “I wanted to go to an art-student ball of which he disapproved. The light disappeared.
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