At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. And, to show you that I have no intention of flying, I will myself close and lock the door. She was dressed as English girls do dress for town, without either coquetry or harshness: her collarless blouse confessed a pretty neck, her eyes were bright and steady, and her dark hair waved loosely and graciously over her ears. Only Gwen left a letter on the pincushion. They knew they were all Bogey in disguise. It tore her apart.
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