Lucy found solace in the lack of sunshine, but the November cold was over the top, even for Illinois. 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. Some doting parent had taught him well. She fled. " "By the way, did you read those stories?" "Yes. Ramage, by a hundred skilful hints had led her to realize that the problem of her own life was inseparably associated with, and indeed only one special case of, the problems of any woman’s life, and that the problem of a woman’s life is love. C. A dull light shone through the open window blinds and softened the room with parchment yellowness. I presume that you have been living alone?” She sighed gently.
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