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. He was nearly wincing. “But I am your husband,” he said. I thank God for the beauty you love and the faults you love. It was an intimate smell, the unmistakable scent of him and another woman. ToC After escaping from the turner's house, Jack Sheppard skirted St.
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