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. " "Hold your tongue!" cried Mrs. Am I quite hidden?" "Not quite;—keep your feet in. “It is a secret mission,” she declared. And not only did these tentacular generalizations gather all the facts of natural history and comparative anatomy together, but they seemed always stretching out further and further into a world of interests that lay altogether outside their legitimate bounds. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. They clapped wildly afterward. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely.
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