She glanced round the garden. It was perfect, she thought. They were always gloomy about it, her mother and father. Terrible, terrible, they said – as though a few old weeds mattered! She liked it shaggy, its lawns white with daisies, the golden rod and the aster making tunnels of green gloom through which one could creep comfortably. But in the grown-up world, isolated behind the glass partition, such things counted.
-Mollie Panter-Downes
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