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. ‘No, Melusine. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. . Vanity was a vice not just to be deprecated, but effectively strangled at birth. Fly! they shall knock me on the head—curse 'em!—before they shall touch you.
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