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. Go on. It was cramped even at the end of the passage. News was sent back home, and in October, Marina traveled to Florence to live with her daughter again. “He dissembles,” he said. "It's a fine idea, my child, but you mustn't do it. He went in there, and he was in there for a good half hour. For a moment she too had started and faltered in her exit from the room.
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