’ ‘But where then is Gosse?’ demanded Melusine. This child was frequently disconcerting. In spite of God and wasps and her father, she had stolen plums; and once because of discovered misdeeds, and once because she had realized that her mother was dead, she had lain on her face in the unmown grass, beneath the elmtrees that came beyond the vegetables, and poured out her soul in weeping. But at the word “home” she turned again. Anna was singing as she used to sing. Wood fancied he recognised. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them.
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