"It would avail him little if he did," replied Kneebone. 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. That was an admission all right. I am no use for a clerk, because I do not understand shorthand. His clothes had evidently seen some service, and were plentifully begrimed with the dust of the workshop.
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