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. “Oh, theories! Being in love is a fact. ’ ‘Between the devil and the deep blue sea, he were,’ agreed Pottiswick’s daughter. The chair was torture. The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. S. Sheppard. But it’s very beastly. Mr Jarvis’s sister, that was. What he needed was not a food but a flavour; and the cocoanut taste of the chestnuts soothed his burning tongue and throat. “TROUSERS!” she whispered. .
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