His breath grew shallower as he approached the room, conscious of the loudness of his hallway-reverberated footfalls. 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. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same.
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