’ She struck her hands together. A few seconds sufficed to clear the passage, through which it had previously cost him more than two hours to force his way. . "The end is the most beautiful in English literature. 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.
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