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. It isn’t. She had worn a long skirt that morning, and a roomier sweater that was slightly easier to handle than Shari’s low cut numbers.
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