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. ‘You were supposed to be nursing him,’ Martha grumbled, ‘and helping him convalesce. In her little sitting-room she turned on the electric light and looked around half fearfully. ” He stared at a little eddy. White assured her.
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