The Well of Loneliness

The first faint breath of spring was in the air, bringing daffodils to the flower-stalls of Paris. Once again Mary's young cherry tree in the garden was pushing out leaves and tiny pink buds along the whole length of its childish branches.

Then Martin wrote: "Stephen, where can I see you? It must be alone. Better not at your house, I think, if you don't mind, because of Mary."