“I’ve got nothing in the world to pack with except a toy size portmanteau. His face was half hidden under a freshly pipeclayed sola topee—sun-helmet. There, hanging among Ann Veronica’s more normal clothing, was a skimpy dress of red canvas, trimmed with cheap and tawdry braid, and short—it could hardly reach below the knee. I wonder if he really wants me to go home. And in those days, too, he used to help her mother with her gardening, and hover about her while she stood on the ladder and hammered creepers to the scullery wall.
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