"What's the matter, father!" continued the new-comer, addressing Wood. Your boyfriend. Annabel entered. Why don’t you make sure before you rush out like that upon a stranger?” “You were with my wife,” Hill repeated sullenly. Manning, I do not think I love you. 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. Conceiving himself called upon, as the intimate friend of the deceased, to pay this last tribute of respect to her memory, he appeared as one of the chief mourners.
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