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. Keeping hold of the doorhandle, she turned slowly. ‘It—it is—nothing,’ she uttered jerkily. There were the burnt papers still in the grate. She had worried in fear that the excitement would be too much for him. So this was what it was all about.
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