Saint Giles's Round-house XIII. 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. ‘Oh no, you don’t,’ said Gerald in a low tone. The streets were deserted as they drove past familiar sites. It was bare of any furnishings. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush.
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