Behind Mrs. 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. Usually it was fish sticks and reheated noodles. She pulled his shirt from its tucked belted state and snaked her hands around his waist. But, in the midst of all her affliction, she has found a steady friend in Mr. “Do not force me to take you seriously,” she continued.
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