’ ‘What of your grandfather?’ Her lips parted in surprise. It would have been very well if she had been some common creature who might have been bought off. ‘You knew her well, Miss Mary?’ Mrs Ibstock turned at the window. No matter how often she came across this phase in love stories, there was never anything explanatory: as if all human beings perfectly understood. “Confound your lover! Look here! Do you really think I am going to run you while he makes love to you? No fear! I never heard of anything so cool. 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.
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