Postscript: Myrtle and Laurel Leaf

⁠​​​‌​​​​​‌​​​​‌​‌‌​​​‌‌‌​‌‌‌‌‌‌‌​​​​‌‌‌​​​‌‌‌‌​‌‌​​‌‌‌​​‌​​​​​​​⁠It was the week before Christmas, Nineteen-fourteen.

London wore her dreariest winter livery of mud-brown and fog-yellow, and at three o'clock on such an afternoon there would have been brilliant lights everywhere ... any other, ordinary year.

This year, Londoners had to find their way as best they could through the gloom.

Across a wide Square with a railed and shrubberied garden in the centre of it,