The boiling under her stern, however, told him nothing. "Well—well," grumbled Jonathan, "I suppose I must be content. " "Have you told her?" "Told her? Told her what?" Spurlock sat straight in his chair. 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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