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. Sheila’s boys hadn’t been much help when they were around the house, anyway, they were more partial to lolling around on couches and running around with their girls. “I’m sorry. Would it be Thérèse?’ She shook her head. She fell into another slumber, one which was more like a blackout. "Who, then?" demanded Jack. “I shall not agree to six.
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