The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. “Ugh!” she said. 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. “We’ll go to a place where we can have a private room,” he said. “I looked for you on the way home from The Big Apple, where were you?” Lucy smiled. .
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