Of course she had taken the boy as her lover, acting as his muse. She dropped on her knees by his side, and gently unbuttoned his waistcoat. Fritz flailed against his mother wildly, crying generous tears. 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. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. ” “Tell me about yourself,” said Ann Veronica. There were sidetables and a writing table, similarly buried in bric-a-brac, and the chair by the French doors could hardly be seen for blankets. "Often. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. “You are an impostor.
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