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. And for Suzanne and the vicomte, I am nothing. ’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain. Perhaps she had found this new thing in life, the thing wonderful. “Mrs.
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