“It might be a policeman borrowing the driveway and looking out for speeders. 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. I will not trust you. Then a surge of rage welled up. “If only her sister is half as pretty, no wonder that she has set the Parisians talking.
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