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. During this dreadful pause the wretched man felt for his sword. But nothing followed to indicate that the liquid had stimulated the heart. ‘To find what?’ demanded Gerald.
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