She had died a few feet from the stoop of the cottage, in the scent of honeysuckle and Come back to something that wasn't life to be tortured with regrets.
All the way back she had said things to herself that Alice, angry and bitter as she had seemed to be, never could have invented.

But they too were unnecessary.

Saying things now was of no more use than throwing stones into the sea at any time.

Rank weeds ...

driven Martin ...