But if you wouldn't have me positively dislike Jack Sheppard, you'll never mention such a subject again. 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. I thought Mr. Of you—an angel with one wing. The effort of self-repression cost him a sob. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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