It has something to do with the fact that my Mom had them when she was only seventeen. A thin mist lay on the river, giving the few craft moving about in it a ghostly look. 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. "Don't scourge me," she cried, trying to hide herself in the farthest corner of the cell.
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