‘Do not beg my pardon. 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. They had scrubbed and dusted, torn down and hung up until noon. For what indeed does she do? A simple song, no gesture, no acting, nothing. "You lie!" Head down, fists doubled, Spurlock rushed: only to be met with a kick which was intended for the groin but which struck the thigh instead. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. The doctor nodded to him curtly.
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