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. Promise me one thing before I leave you. Her mouth was an effective tourniquet. She remained for some seconds crouching at the fender, poker in hand. “I have hurt my father,” she said; “I have hurt my aunt. She would write to Gerald. “Among other things, you know, I didn’t understand quite—I didn’t understand that you were so keenly interested in this suffrage question. " "I do not doubt it," retorted Winifred, scornfully; "because I attach credit neither to one nor the other.
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