“But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. 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. It was as much accident as anything, but she had killed him. He must have been following her from room to room, silent in his stockinged feet. A woman isn’t much freer—in reality. There were white men with families, a fine mission-house, and a club-house for cards and billiards.
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