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. Shari was snoring, the pill having worked its magic. His employer retreated into the further apartment, leaving the door ajar. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. But those days are over—quite over.
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