At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “A bad thing for me when that legacy came. It was Celeste’s idea. Melusine turned and turned, unable to imagine just where the secret door could be. This was unscrupulous, he admitted, because he had no intention of following through on the seductive promise in his conduct. She was vehemently impatient—she did not clearly know for what—to do, to be, to experience.
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