‘Parbleu, do you think he will run away? He has a bullet inside him, and it must be taken out. He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. 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.
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