The doorbell tinkled and Michelle grabbed her purse and rushed down the creaky wooden stairs. 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. He always followed by showering her with kisses, embracing her tightly as she squirmed and giggled. "Ja," replied the skipper. She still had her letter of credit. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. Like the flaws of an old marble. Spurling in alarm. But it annoyed Ann Veronica.
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