She was not a reversion to type, which intimates the primordial; she suggested rather the incarnation of some goddess of the South Seas. 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. It was a perfect windless spring day, a Sunday.
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