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. “He knows. Sheppard, with a faint smile and a doubtful shake of the head, as Wood drew her to a seat beside him, "for I've had my full share of misery. It was Blueskin. . Why? Love was a word of God's, and yet her father had denied it—denied it to the Book, denied it to his own flesh and blood. Lucia had never been so happy, so content.
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