. 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. She succumbed to cancer of the breast at age forty-three, it was slow and wasting. ‘Now then, missie. But, in spite of her attractions, we shall address ourselves to the younger, and more interesting couple.
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