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. She could still feel his psychic presence all around her, and she knew he was thinking of her. It's too hard. After partaking of some little refreshment, and changing her attire, Mrs. A diversion was created by the violent struggles of the little old lady. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror.
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