But I am sick of tearing up letters and hopeless of getting what I have to say better said. 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 simply understood there was a greater need to get over the past than to talk about it. She throws a sort of spell over us all.
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