She had never been so happy to vomit. “Young lady! Are you sure you’re of legal age to be smoking those cigarettes?” “No, I’m not of legal age. I wanted the time with you. 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.
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