” “Does she have to sell her soul to the Devil?” Lucy asked, feeling stupid. 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. There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. ” And while he talked and watched her as he talked, she answered, and behind her listening watched and thought about him. He was a little impressed by Ann Veronica’s metaphor of the string, which, indeed, she owed to Hetty Widgett.
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