There was going to be no quarter between these two. There came a wild rush of anthropological lore into her brain, a flare of indecorous humor. 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 do not doubt it," retorted Winifred, scornfully; "because I attach credit neither to one nor the other. “How are you?” He asked, realizing she was unnerved by the very sound of his voice. There’s no sense in morality, I suppose, unless you are fundamentally immoral.
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