There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. 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. “Before this there was a sort of restraint—a make-believe. The open books she knew by heart; aye, they had been ground into her, morning and night. All was darkness, horror, confusion, ruin. You would not have the slightest difficulty. Having accomplished his intent, Gerald let the lad go and had himself driven back to Stratton Street. She calls us her guests, but in reality we are her prisoners. ’ ‘Success?’ Her eyes narrowed.
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