He seemed to avoid meeting Anna’s eyes as much as possible. And then she came out into the street, sure only of one thing—that she could not return directly to her lodgings. 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. He had no wish to go foraging in Spurlock's trunk. Maybe half a year, counting this summer.
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