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. “Vee,” she said, “come home. Listen to me, Thames. It probably had its own repulsive oubliette in the bottom, where tiny princesses could fall and break their necks. She told her husband that she wished her nothing more than her own death. “Look at me. ‘Jacques!’ She got no further, for Kimble came towards her, speaking fast and low. . He made it impossible not to respond, his arms tightening deliciously around hers. It'll be your own fault if you don't soon get another and a proper young man into the bargain.
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