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. Through fire and water, through penury and pestilence, your hand will always be on his shoulder. Well, I don’t think that’s fair. ’ ‘Alone, miss?’ ‘Certainly alone. . The door crashed back against the wall inside and both men hurtled into the room, weapons at the ready—and stopped dead. “I’m ready,” said Ann Veronica, closing her microscope-box with a click, and looking for one brief instant up the laboratory. He knew she had been weeping.
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