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. It was so hopeless to put it to them. Her aunt went off at a tangent. You are yet a child; and though you have strayed from the right path, a stronger hand than your own has led you thence. For a moment he did not recognize Annabel. She calmed herself, breathing deeply. "Fold it … under the pillow. ‘Why did you bring him? I hate him. Or at least he did the day before yesterday. ” “Your priestess,” whispered Ann Veronica, softly.
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