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. ’ ‘Then you’re mad,’ Roding said flatly, and suddenly grinned. ‘To the contrary, I will have you to know something. She fixed her brilliant eyes upon him. .
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