“Yes,” she said, “that is what we ought to do. Coming from the gloom of the passage, even the corridors seemed sufficiently illuminated for them to see their way. 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. ” “Every one hasn’t the Gift.
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