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A murmur ran through the assemblage, by several of whom Jack was recognised. ‘Ain’t enough as my bed is took, my sheets all bloodied, and my gin took for to waste on that fellow’s wound. She wasn’t sure of herself when she said it. 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. “There is something to be said for the lady-like theory after all,” she admitted.
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