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. We came on here at once. She relented out of exhaustion, yet he would not let her near Marina, his embrace tightening. ‘Point it at me. Stanley, in his effort to seem at ease, took entire possession of the hearthrug. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky.
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