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. McClintock did not exaggerate his ability to read faces. “I am sick of it. The woollen-draper looked at his watch. But at least it gave her more time.
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