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 solos were revealing, sensual and moody. He hung vaguely for a moment as she passed. It was obviously pitched well, hitting her head at a good thirtyfive miles per hour. Later, she would sew it on. There was a brief pause, a crowded pause, between them. I don’t know.
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