” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. You are nothing of the sort. I meant to lie to you. When they reached her rooms she stepped lightly out upon the pavement. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. Only I wish that it did not remind one so much of a second-hand clothes shop. 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.
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