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. They were a young man and an old one, and both appeared deeply affected. “More coffee, hon?” She held her hand over the cup. She went from period to period exactly as she would have read prose; so that sense and music were equally balanced.
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