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. “Then your name——” “My name is Pellissier. “Look at me. To-morrow I am going to Paris. You seem altogether altered, too. " "Are you sure of that," inquired Jackson.
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