She had treated him badly; she had hurt him and her aunt; she had done wrong by their standards, and she would never persuade them that she had done right. Dizziness overcame him like anesthetic and he slept. 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. But the sheer immensity of the tract! James Boyle was certainly up against it, hard. Then, very awkwardly, he took a stool and placed it at the end of Ann Veronica’s table, and sat down. "Why did I want it under my pillow?" he asked. "Are you not that man's mistress?" demanded Mrs.
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