Ann Veronica was not ready enough to deal with that counter-stroke. Every care had been taken of it, as well as of himself, by the humane inmates of the house in which he had sought shelter. But to England we will go. ‘Then we will beg. 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. But it was extraordinary what seemingly irrelevant things could restore her to the thought of Capes again. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. She was nearly dead.
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