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. The crowner's 'quest sat on her yesterday—and if she hadn't been proved out of her mind, she would have been buried at four lane-ends. She saw his lips yell, “Stop. " So she told him the adventure of the two beachcombers in the typhoon, and how they became regenerated by their magnificent courage. There was enough contra-light to render her ethereal. I am sorry that I do not know any one in London. .
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