At the present moment she was living in a world of her own creation, a carnival of brave men and fair women, characters out of the tales she had so newly read for the first time. “You’re not a virgin, are you?” It was as much an accusation as a question. 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. "Aw Come. ‘More nor that. ” “You may be sure of the one,” she murmured. She reflected before answering.
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