The houses on Snow Hill were thronged, like those in Old Bailey. Find them at Remenham House—if you can. She was almost tempted to tell him, if only to see the cracks of surprise and incredulity break the immobility of his yellow countenance. The girl regarded him with the face of a Sphinx. 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.
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