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. Oh dear!—how sorry I am I ever left Wych Street. He drew her close up to him with a strong, steady pull. The cloth nearly touches the floor.
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