Montague Hill. ToC London, at the period of this history, boasted only a single bridge. 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. Melusine tried to squash down, still trying to maintain her guard. “You will be so good as to leave us your correct name and address, mademoiselle,” he said curtly.
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