” “Of how beautiful my children would be?” He finished her sentence. I’ll do it. 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 as a natural consequence, they don’t do so well, and they don’t get on—and so the world doesn’t pay them. “Mr.
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