. 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. "Surely," she said, after a pause, "you don't attach any importance to what my mother has just said. “I cannot thank you, Sir John,” she said. .
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