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. ’ The core of hurt rose up, tearing at her insides. From time to time the man below would shout, and the boy would let the threads go with the snap of a harpist, only to recover them instantly.
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