You creep around in a nun’s habit, peering into a private ballroom. . 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. Squads reached to the very portal of that centre of disturbance. Least of all myself.
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