She cursed herself for a fool. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. There was a bare chance that he had been mistaken. "What's that to you?" demanded Jonathan, gruffly. But in his presence a wall of diffidence and timidity encompassed her. 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. “Cheveney wouldn’t have anything to say about it, as it happens,” he remarked, a little grimly. PELLISSIER. gutenberg. \" Lucy replied.
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