She drifted, via Theobald’s Road, obliquely toward the region about Titchfield Street. He died in the war. 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. I've watched this lad—this Sheppard—from infancy; and, though I have apparently concerned myself little about him, I have never lost sight of my purpose. He drew her to him with his hands upon her waist. He meditated, and began a new paragraph.
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