“Does he never speak to you of—of old times?” she faltered. 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 she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son. ‘Why?’ Melusine eyed him dubiously.
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