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. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. Sheppard, with a frenzied laugh. He hung precariously on the ragged edge, but he hung there. Now if she sent fifteen pounds the suggestion that she had spent a five-pound note in the meanwhile would be irresistible. He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. “This is wonderful! I’ve been feeling that you had vanished from my world.
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