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. That is my real milieu, and one that I am convinced you would not only adorn but delight in. “Annabel,” she said, “you are my sister, or I would bid you take the flowers if you care for them, and leave the room. ” “I will tell you what there is about her which is so fetching,” Drummond, who was lounging by, declared.
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