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. Sated, he rolled off her body and retired to his quarters. “On or about the day you receive this letter, Anna, the six months will be up. Suddenly she felt her wrist grasped by a strong hand.
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