256 Lucy chose her words carefully. That is what my mother used to call me. Very well. Sheppard, pressing her hand to her temples. 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. A coach was also in attendance, at a little distance.
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