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. London Bridge had suffered a degree less than most places. For that worthless father of yours—’ Melusine let go the hand only so that she might throw her own hands in the air. She evolved a dim image of herself cooped up in a house under the benevolent shadow of Mr.
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