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. You cannot arrest yourself. From where had he come, and why? An author! To her he would be no less interesting because he was unsuccessful. It was a society column about the richest men in the world and their lavish parties. ’ Lucy giggled. "And the rings?" "Ja.
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