“May I be allowed to say,” he declared, “that I came here with the same intention. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. 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. F. The floor was strewn with screws, nails, fragments of wood and stone, and across the passage lay the heavy iron fillet. ‘But to do only what one wishes, it is not always convenient. His idea was to get behind this sustained listlessness. ’ He closed the panel and came slowly out of the little dressing-room, Roding at his heels.
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