"Read that," rejoined Austin, pointing to the placard. 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. “One can’t tell. His eyes were red. . Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. He was and always would be dramatizing his emotions; perpetually he would be confounding his actual with his imaginary self. And instead he found her playing the great lady, and playing it well.
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