"Look to the horses, Obadiah. Too late. “What is the exact force of a motif?” she asked at random. ” She changed the subject abruptly. 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. On the other a wretched engraving of the Chevalier de Saint George, or, as he was styled in the label attached to the portrait, James the Third, raised a suspicion that the inmate of the house was not altogether free from some tincture of Jacobitism. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. She bathed frequently with ash and lye soap stolen from traders. I certainly didn’t mean to kiss you. Even the abstract paintings on the wall were gray.
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