” Lucy replied sadly. A home MAY be a sort of cage, but still—it’s a home. " "You'd better hold your peace, my lad," observed Jonathan, in a menacing tone. Here one might live the life of golden days. She responded as he slipped his hands under her sweater. 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. And from that they came back by way of the Kreutzer Sonata and Resurrection to Tolstoy again.
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