The woman I wanted was another man's wife. I only seen her when she come with that Sister Martha. I hear her coming. But to choose this of all moments. 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. So, when I tell you she loves you, I know.
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