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. They poisoned the system with lead and exploded half the time on the other side. Anyhow, there was some pleasurable satisfaction in knowing where the quarry would be for the next three weeks. Her shoulders were gripped hard and a familiar voice spoke. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood.
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