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. With something near to horror they found themselves thus confronted. There she sought and at last found 107A, one of those heterogeneous piles of offices which occupy the eastern side of the lane. She wanted to think. “You have them both,” Anna answered.
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