“Let us walk round to Covent Garden,” he suggested. He glanced downwards at the impetuous torrent, which he could perceive shooting past him with lightning swiftness in the gloom. “Poor little Miniver! What can she be but what she is?. Except for one memorable school excursion to Paris, Ann Veronica had never yet been outside England. I'll not speak of Jack or Jonathan. “For my part I can see no difference in any of these French girls who come over here with their demure manner and atrocious songs. 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 can come round there. “I think she would,” she decided.
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