At the back of the house, on a bank, rose an old-fashioned terrace-garden, full of apple-trees and other fruittrees in blossom, and lively with the delicious verdure of early spring. “This is my way back to my side of the Park,” she said. “I suppose, Mr. Earles,” Anna said. Gosse backed, not even attempting to parry so unorthodox a use of the foil. All three, then, burst into an immoderate fit of laughter. She saw his eyes glaze over. ‘You can’t go to England. Hoped you'd not be retaken. “Thank you.
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