Gave me a purse, and told me to take both of ’em up to Harwich and put them on a packet for Holland. She read voraciously, and presently, because of her aunt’s censorship, she took to smuggling any books she thought might be prohibited instead of bringing them home openly, and she went to the theatre whenever she could produce an acceptable friend to accompany her. She saw her life before her robbed of all generous illusions, the wrappered life unwrappered forever, vistas of dull responses, crises of makebelieve, years of exacting mutual disregard in a misty garden of fine sentiments. The petals have fallen—the red petals we loved so. Then she fell into a fever of remorse for the habit of bad language she had acquired.
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