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. Wood hadn't struck me. " "But Wild still lives," cried Wood. " "I don't care for that," replied Jack. Wood, "and I'll take care of Thames. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. He was indeed still in the throes of his bewilderment. —'How so?' says I.
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