She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. Mirages, over which he was constantly throwing bridges which were wasted efforts, since invariably they spanned solid ground. Lucy paced outside of the stone bricked room until her mother began to scream.
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