“She”, you say. Then Sheila noticed the stains. “Dear friend,” she said, “this is a matter which you must leave to me to do as I think best. Voilà tout. 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 didn’t know he had Italian relatives.
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