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. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning.
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