The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. From what she could tell, he truly had convinced himself that he was in love with her, but she knew that his ardor would fade eventually inasmuch as she knew John’s would. "You are giving that chap the boot rather suddenly?" "Had to. And if he didn’t, what was the good of seeing him? “I wish he was a woman,” she said, “then I could make him my friend. 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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