It had been a part of the vast domain of the servants in the house’s earlier incarnation. I have it about me. 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. You're not afraid, Mr. Ennison’s acquaintance. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. I was afraid of being talked about. CHAPTER XIV Ruth lost the point entirely.
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