I love some one else. . 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. He resented being regarded as irregular. “Michelle, I think that you are the victim of an extremely overactive imagination. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. Rank ingratitude, I call it. She is the wife now of another man.
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