She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. 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 am only sorry that I did not ask you to go with me. “You too sing?” he asked. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. If a cart were coming, or those labourers in the field had heard, escape was impossible. "You've been quizzing my friend Kent, I perceive, in your Burlington Gate.
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