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. “Yes, I believe he is. “You shall go,” he declared. " The phrase was new, but Ruth nodded understandingly. The boy had all kinds of opportunity; but it's the old story of father making it too easy. Nor Jacques.
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