A row of magnificent, and even then venerable, elms threw their broad arms over this pleasant spot. 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 squealed, clutching her towel around her. Seventeen hours, sixteen hours. But he had been forewarned by his great-nephew. “I should make sure that he doesn’t try to drive himself home.
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