He cherished her. “I won’t go home,” she said; “I won’t!” and she evaded the clutch of the fatherly policeman and tried to thrust herself past him in the direction of that big portal. 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. Probably his first serious bout with John Barleycorn. As they kissed goodbye, she hoped that he felt the same reluctance to part. She looked at him as he thrust deeply, his face contorted with pleasure as he watched her riding him.
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