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. He succeeded so well that they were almost in Montague Street before Anna stopped short. " "You're agitating yourself unnecessarily, Joan," returned Wood, in a soothing voice. Which were perfectly true, as Gerald was aware.
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